The Long Week
by Kali47
Summary: Sherlock negotiated with Mycroft 24hours at Baskerville, in exchange for a favour. Therefore when his brother comes to him with a case, the detective simply cannot refuse... and all hell's breakin' loose. Beta Read.
1. PROLOGUE

**The Long Week**

Chapters: 9 chapters + prologue & epilogue  
><span>Type:<span> crime, adventure, friendship, family  
><span>Rating:<span> K+  
><span>Main characters:<span> Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson (no slash / no incest)  
><span>Timeline:<span> Set after 2x02 "The Hound of Baskerville" and before 2x03 "The Reichenbach Fall"_  
><em>Summary: Sherlock negotiated with Mycroft 24hours at Baskerville. Therefore when his brother comes to him with a case, the detective simply cannot refuse... and all hell's breaking loose.  
>Both brothers find themselves embarked in a race against the clock, in which they don't only need to outrun and outsmart foreign killers but also Britain's very own MI5.<br>Beta Reader: the wonderful Kate (aka love-like-burning)  
><span>Disclaimer:<span> Don't own the show; don't own the characters (sadly).  
><span>Written:<span> February/March 2012

* * *

><p>PROLOGUE.<p>

"How are you brother, dear?" Sherlock starts the phone conversation with an unusually enthusiastic voice and obviously faked tenderness.

Mycroft smirks slightly at the tone, which he recognizes instantly. He gives himself a split-second to smile at the memories it elicits. The elder Holmes has heard it many times when they were younger; he still has a name for it: it's the _my-little-brother-really-wants-something-and-he'll-even-play-nice-to-have-it _tone.

"Very well, thank you for asking," Mycroft replies with an equally artificial sugar-coated voice. "I have to say, it's a relief to finally hear from you my dear little brother, I was starting to wonder if you had not received my texts," he continues with the same intonation. If Sherlock needed something from him, Mycroft did not intend to make it easy for him. After all, this was a game both men knew how to play.

"Apologies, but I've been awfully busy," the younger replies. "You know, working for a client deeply in need of help whilst trying to bring peace of mind to an entire town," he quickly adds, and Mycroft has to roll his eyes at the dramatics.

"So I've heard," he says, a hint of disdain colouring the edge of his words. "And breaking into a secured military facility was, of course, the only way to help the poor souls-"

"Obviously," Sherlock interjects quickly.

"And using my credentials was your only option, never mind that I'd have to spend an entire afternoon explaining myself to my superiors and filling in a mountain of paperwork to square things with the army. Yes, evidently my troubles really are _nothing_ compared to the greater cause you were serving." Mycroft finishes in a flourish as if he'd never been interrupted. It's Sherlock's turn to roll his eyes.

"Mother always did try to teach us to be good boys and help others," he simply states, knowing his brother can't argue with that. The detective is playing his cards well, Mycroft has to agree. Enthusiastically, he takes their verbal battle to the next level.

"There were easier ways," he says evenly, a drip of laziness thrown in for good measure.

"Ah, but time was of the essence Mycroft," the youngest replies, his words picking up speed. "And we needed the element of surprise,"

"I'll concede to that, Sherlock. And you _did_ after all just call me to apologize." He inhales loudly for effect and waits for a beat before continuing. "Give me my card back and we'll forget this incident ever happened. Now, I'm afraid that you'll have to excuse me, but there is a meeting I need to attend."

The line goes silent for a few seconds, and Mycroft smirks; he knows the best part is coming.

"My case is not finished," Sherlock starts, and his sibling can hear the cheerful façade falling to pieces with each word. "I need to go back to Baskerville," he adds somewhat reluctantly.

"I'm afraid that won't be possible, but I appreciate you asking me first this time." Mycroft replies, forcing himself to sound a little bit regretful; it's the perfect moment to remind the brat who taught him to play this game in the first place.

"It's for the case," Sherlock says again, somewhat petulantly.

"Terribly sorry, but it's out of my power. Surely you can work around it," he replies.

"I need to go back inside," he says and Mycroft can picture him frowning in exasperation. All niceties are now gone from Sherlock's voice and the elder is ready for the coup-de-grace.

"No can do, I am _ever so_ sorry brother dear," he replies and it's getting hard to keep the smile from his voice now.

"Stop playing Mycroft!" Sherlock spats, knowing he's beaten. He sighs audibly and forces the words out, "I need twenty-four hours. What's your price?"

The elder Holmes debates whether he should let out a victory laugh, but finally decides against it, realizing it wouldn't do much good to antagonize his brother more at this point. He however gives himself a few seconds to savour his win before replying, "Well, if you put it that way then _Sherly_." He enjoys the use of the nickname he hasn't had a chance to voice in years, "I'll require two things: the return of my card and a favour."

"What favour?" Cold, detached words now.

"I haven't decided yet; but I'll make sure to let you know." Mycroft replies in a triumphant voice.

"Fine!" Sherlock gives in and promptly ends the conversation without saying goodbye.

Feeling oddly contempt, Mycroft deplores the lack of CCTV coverage in the countryside. What he wouldn't give to have a look at the detective's face; Sherlock always was a sore loser.

"_Poor Watson,"_ he thinks. _"Knowing my brother, you're surely going to have a bad day now."_

**TBC.**

* * *

><p><span>GlossaryTrivia:

_I'm using quite a few acronyms here and there further ahead in the story, so here's a little bit trivia to help if you're not from London or familiar with British Intelligence system. Hopefully I got it all right (thank you Google Maps and Wikipedia)._

**MI5:** officially known as **The Security Service  
><strong>Headquarters: **Thames House** (on the north bank of the Thames)  
>Job: acts as Britain's internal counter-intelligence and security agency (aka spies who stay in the country)<p>

**MI6**: officially known as **The Secret Intelligence Service** (SIS)  
>Headquarters: <strong>SIS Building<strong> (on the south bank of the Thames, near Vauxhall Cross)  
>Job: supplies the British Government with foreign intelligence (aka spies who work abroad)<p>

The easier way to go from one building to the other is via **Lambeth Bridge**, on the east.  
>MI5 and MI6 both operate under the formal direction of the JIC.<p>

**JIC**: officially known as **The Joint Intelligence Committee  
><strong>Headquarter:** Whitehall **(not far from 10 Downing Street)  
>Job: they're a branch of the British Cabinet Office and they are directing the national intelligence organisations of the United Kingdom (MI5, MI6, GCHQ, DI)<p> 


	2. WEDNESDAY

**The Long Week**

CHAPTER 1: WEDNESDAY

Mycroft Holmes sighs internally as the old wooden clock on his left solemnly ticks 7pm. The faint noise goes unnoticed by most of the government's officials present in the classy meeting room of the Savoy Hotel in London.

This is the part of his job Mycroft dislikes the most. Those endless political summits where representatives slow dance around each other and spend countless hours going back and forth on the same issues without ever coming to an agreement. Today's meeting had started early in the morning and out of the eight topics they had to decide upon: both parties had only agreed on three. And that was solely because subject number two was a no-brainer and they'd come to an understanding after a quick fifteen minute discussion.

The room is large and richly decorated, adorned by two rectangular tables facing each other. When they'd entered the room, both had been covered in crisp white sheets and embellished by large silver coffee and tea pots and complimentary pastries carefully arranged on a plate. Alas, all the scones are now gone, Mycroft deplores, but this doesn't come as much of a surprise with Collin Northingam in the room. The British Minister of Finance was known for his fierce appetite. However, the slowness of the day gives Mycroft the impression that today's luncheon was ages ago and he eyes with a bit of envy the two croissants which are left on the French's table.

Unfortunately, it wouldn't do very well for him to get up and help himself to their guest's food, he supposes. Not when they are forcefully disagreeing on the tax percentage for agronomical importation. Northingam turns to him at that and asks for some figures on last year's export and the ginger-haired man rapidly re-centres his thoughts even as he starts quick-delivering some numbers without needing to look at his dossier.

The discussion continues for another thirty minutes before both sides agree they've had enough for one day and adjourn the meeting. Northingam doesn't waste time, and is the first through the large wooden door, quickly followed by his secretary. Although Mycroft wishes he was at home already, he takes his time and controls his movements. His face is the picture of serenity as he picks his umbrella and pushes his chair back. Out of the corner of his eye he sees the French _Ministre des Finances_ open the door and he replies to his goodbye nod with a polite smile. He makes his way outside and follows the corridor to the lift; presses the call button and turns his cell back on. A few blips indicate missed connections and text messages; this time, he sighs audibly.

"I hesitate to leave mine off," someone says behind his back, the words are edged with a French accent.

Mycroft easily recognizes the voice, but he raises his gaze from the device to look at the man who's just spoken none the less. It's Jean Layot, one of the Elysée's top ten. He is two heads shorter than him and thin as a rack. His wrinkled face seems to always be picture of a quiet wisdom, but the taller man can see past it. He isn't fooled by the carefully schooled features and he notices the quick chocolate eyes that keep dancing around, analyzing the world with swift accuracy. The two of them are old acquaintances, occupying somewhat similar posts. Mycroft knows Jean is a man of intellect and a good chess player, and he truly respects that.

The Frenchman lets a smirk grace the left corner of his mouth and turns his phone on. When the lift doors open, the little black device in his hand starts beeping with messages. The elder man is the closest to the lift's control and he absently presses on the 4th floor button before the other passenger has a chance to extend his arm to send them to the reception instead. Mycroft refrains from complaining and gives all his attention to his phone.

The ride is quiet, both man keeping their eyes down, scrolling through emails. When the lift stops, chirms and opens its door, Layot takes his time going out and the ginger-haired man raises his eyes again.

"I'm certain a lot of things require your attention Mycroft, but there's a matter I would very much like to discuss with you," he says from the corridor, his thin hand effectively stopping the doors from closing.

The British man raises an eyebrow but refrains from speaking up. He does have an awful lot of things to do, but this kind of direct approach is uncharacteristic of the foreigner and his curiosity is piqued.

"S'il te plait," Jean asks and Mycroft perceives a certain nervousness in his tone. He nods in agreement and places his phone back in his breast pocket.

Both men walk in silence toward room 423 and not a word his spoken until the door is locked behind them. Layot doesn't waste time; he quickly retrieves a small device from his suitcase and puts it on the table beneath the window. The taller man recognizes it as a scrambler that will render any microphone in the room useless, he lifts an eyebrow again as Jean turns it on.

"Précaution nécessaire," the foreigner says.

"What is this about?" Mycroft finally questions not wanting to waste time in futile preamble.

"The things I will tell you need to remain between us," the Frenchman starts and Mycroft's face is once again completely devoid of emotions. It's a promise he will not make and Layot knows it very well. "I can't stop you from running to Downing Street as soon as we are finished, but I've known you for years and I trust that I haven't misjudged you."

He pauses and glances at the Englishman who doesn't give the slightest reaction to his words, somehow this apparent lack of interest is what's been expected and he continues, "We had a similar economical meeting recently with the Germans as I have no doubt you're aware of; it went terribly... for us. They are very strict with their politics, and that was not news to us, but it was taken to such a level that it took even us by surprise. They ridiculed us," he says with a fierceness that betrays a wounded ego.

"I thought about this for a long time and there are some little details that don't add up," he starts off, composed again, "Every weakness we had, they found it and forced us to lower our prices until we were backed in a very tight and small spot."

"What are you implying?" the taller man enquires flatly.

"They had us cornered easily. Too easily." This gets a raised eyebrow from Mycroft.

"And this is why you are now desperately trying to befriend us, you need our help," the Englishman replies reading between the lines. So it wasn't just an impression that the French Minister had been a little less arrogant than usual.

"Yes, but you're missing my point, Holmes!" Jean interjects quickly, his accent slipping a little. "I believe that they had some information they shouldn't have had."

"Someone spied on you, it's hardly newsworthy," Mycroft lazily replies; he knows the Secret Intelligence Service has its own spies inside the Elysée as well.

"To this level; yes, _it is_," he counters then pauses, briefly wondering if he should continue. He passes a hand in his short hair and seems to come to a decision, "I have been doing this job longer than you, Mycroft; I can feel it in my bones there is something very wrong going on. Missing documents, failed missions, and misinformation are just the tip of the iceberg. This is like the bloody cold war all over again," he sighs audibly and tries to calm himself. "I am telling you my friend, there's a shadow scheming out of sight in the dark and it's targeting _us_. And I don't mean only France, but your country as well."

"You're being dramatic."

"_Dramatique!_ The north of Africa is a powder keg and most of Europe's too engulfed in the economical crisis to do anything about it. These are very dangerous times and you know it." He takes two steps towards Mycroft and looks up to him, meeting his eyes unwaveringly, "Tell me you haven't received some strange reports recently, missions that you were assured would success and that mysteriously failed?" the tall man scolds his features and doesn't let any of the uneasiness the question stirs in him show on his face. But Layot seems to read something in his eyes and he nods his head with contempt before taking a step back.

"There is a new player on the board and he has pawns everywhere," he pauses again and lets his eyes wander outside of the window for a few seconds. He is back to his calm and serene demeanour. "Our relations with Berlin are tense right now but it can be overcome with a bit of time." He turns back to Mycroft and looks at him sternly, "We can't let anything imperil the relations between London and Paris. It's impossible for us to fight on two fronts at once. Besides we all need to remain strong in the eyes of Europe or it will crumble."

Mycroft quickly analyzes the situation; he reviews in his mind the different links between England and various countries. He counts the nation's number of allies versus enemies and comes to the realization that it is indeed better to keep the French on their good side. He inclines his head slightly to the right in sign of agreement.

"I have no evidence but I'm following a few leads, I need more time," Layot continues, stepping closer to his British counterpart again. "Less endless meetings and more time to investigate."

Mycroft wholeheartedly agrees with him on this point and he allows a quick sardonic smile to grace the corner of his mouth.

"Please mon ami, you need to be more vigilant than ever," he says, looking up in the British man's eyes again. They hold gaze and the younger man finally nods in agreement.

"C'est promis," he replies, his words tainted with a mild English accent.

They exchange their goodbyes and promise to keep each other informed of any new development. Mycroft takes his cell out again inside the lift and he's on the phone with Anthea before he's exited the building. He asks for a full list of all of MI6's recently failed missions abroad.

As he sits in the car driving him back home he ponders this new development and its possible implications. He knows Jean doesn't have any real proof, just _feelings_. But an eerie uneasiness has settled itself upon him, one he cannot seem to shake off. Against his better judgment, he decides to keep their little discussion to himself for now; at least until he knows more.

* * *

><p>"Boooored," a deep voice all but wails, disturbing the peaceful silence that had descended upon 221B Baker Street.<p>

John doesn't even bother looking up from the beige jumper in his hands that he's desperately trying to scrub clean. So far, he's managed to get rid of all of the sticky purple-ish substance that stained the left elm. He was now fighting the larger patch of goo that had hit him in the stomach when he'd come in the kitchen earlier.

He pinches his nose as he recalls the incident one more time. He'd just got home from a long day at the surgery, wanting nothing more than a large mug of tea. Apparently Sherlock had been so engrossed in whatever he was cooking on his Bunsen burner that he hadn't even heard him coming in. And when John's 'Do you want some tea?' question had broken the silence, Sherlock's hand had minutely shaken and now... here he is, cleaning off gunk once again while his mad flatmate limply hangs - mostly upside down and oh-so-dramatically - on the sofa.

"_Booored_," Sherlock complains again for the seventeenth time since John firstly yelled at him, then forced him to help clean the kitchen, and lastly forbid him to do any more experiments for the night and _don't even think about torturing me with the violin tonight!_ Pretending not to have heard, the doctor keeps his focus on the task at hand. He is a patient man, he'll wait until Sherlock's bored for the twentieth time before politely suggesting he should just go and hang himself.

Moments pass and John's mostly done saving his jumper when the detective rolls on his side, in a flight of limbs and the swirl of his dressing robe. He presses his head strongly against one of the cushion. Bored number eighteen is slightly muffled but John ears it distinctly enough.

The young man twists and turns again a few more times before finally sitting up. He takes a few strides through the flat and walks to the window. His gaze quickly travels up and down the street, taking in every little detail but nothing retains his interest. His breath leaves a small patch of fog on the glass. He inhales deeply and blows fully on the window before tracing five letters in capitals with his right index finger. "_Nineteen_," John thinks to himself as Sherlock walks back to the couch. The dark-haired man grabs his head in his hand and tugs mercilessly at his curls for a while before looking up at his flatmate.

"John," he asks rapidly, clearly having just had a sudden idea.

"Yes, Sherlock," the sandy-haired man replies without raising his eyes.

"Please grab your gun and go kill someone. Make it interesting," he suggests and the medic has to look up at that, for it oddly sounded like an order to him. He looks Sherlock squarely and _really_ he shouldn't be surprised to realise the younger man is absolutely serious.

"No, Sherlock, I'm not going to start offing people just to help you pass the time," he replies shaking his head. "Why don't you get some sleep?"

"Dull," the detective says quickly.

"Read a book, watch telly, or clean some of this mess," the other suggests pointing at the table which is covered in papers, leftovers from their latest case Sherlock's cracked two days ago.

"Dull, dull, extremely dull," is the amused reply. Then he promptly stands - as if someone had just pulled on his invisible strings - with his right arm held high above his head, fist closed.

"My Kingdome for an interesting murder," he proclaims loudly. He waits three seconds and when nothing happens, he drops back down all the more quickly. John rolls his eyes at the dramatics.

* * *

><p>A little over three miles south-east of Baker Street a man quickly opens a hotel room's door with a card he's stolen earlier from the maid's tray. He soundlessly lets himself inside and crosses the room with a stealth that's undoubtedly taken him years to perfect.<p>

He enters the bathroom unnoticed and swiftly overpowers the old man relaxing in the bathtub. His gloved hands push hard on the naked shoulders and water spills over the rim. The man's so surprised he has inhaled some of the liquid before survival instincts kick in and he starts fighting back. That leaves him at a clear disadvantage and the battle is lost before it even truly began. The old man goes limp, his head resting against the white ceramic well under water.

The intruder doesn't wait around; he is at the door forty-six seconds later. It closes quietly behind him and he walks away with a common nonchalance that assures him to go unnoticed. The light briefly reflects on the golden numbers encrusted on the wooden door; it reads 423.

**TBC.**


	3. THURSDAY

**The Long Week**

CHAPTER 2: THURSDAY

The sun has barely started to rise when a slick black car takes turns into Baker Street. It stops near the entrance of 221B and a tall ginger-haired man exits without making a sound. He takes two steps towards the entryway and the car starts off again. Although the day promises to be sunny, the man carries a black umbrella in his left hand; he has a dossier emblazed with Her Majesty's Security Service logo hooked under his right arm. He gently pushes the door open and strides in like he owns the place.

Inside the flat, John is finishing cleaning the dishes of his light breakfast. He starts work within the hour and it's almost time for him to leave if he doesn't want to be late. Sherlock is at the table, his eyes scanning the morning papers, desperately eager for a case, but as most days, his hopes diminish with each page he turns.

A knock - which John can only describe as polite - disturbs the quietness of the moment and he drops his towel to go welcome their visitor, knowing full well that Sherlock couldn't be bothered to do it himself.

"Morning Mycroft," he says warmly when the pan of wood reveals the elder Holmes; feigning surprise although he suspected it was him all along. No-one else can make knocks on an entrance door sound so polite.

"John," the man greets with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes as he enters. He quickly scans the empty room and promptly moves on to the kitchen.

John wonders if it wouldn't be better - meaning safer for his sanity - to just quickly run outside and go to work, leaving the Holmes siblings to it. But then his good nature overcomes his sense of self-preservation and he closes the door and walks back to the kitchen. Who knows, he might have to stop them from killing each other again.

The former soldier finds Mycroft poised in the kitchen's entrance, impatience creeping in on his features. He stands with both hands atop his umbrella handle, fingers drumming as he waits. Sherlock is still reading, apparently oblivious to everything else.

"Tea?" John questions as he passes the tall man and enters the room. The newcomer quickly nods in agreement and he fills the kettle.

"Your brother's here, Sherlock," he announces as he turns the heat on.

The young man makes a good show of being surprised: dropping his paper down, and looking up, eyes widening slightly - a controlled reaction - as they settle on his elder brother's frame.

"Oh Mycroft, to what do I owe the displeasure?" he asks with a faked cheerfulness and John rolls his eyes, wondering already why he didn't leave while he had the chance.

"Good to see you too, _brother dear_," Mycroft says, clearly stressing out the last two words and Sherlock recognises it for what it is: payback time.

He gives the state official a once over again, looking at him with his detective's eyes this time. He notices the dossier first: its light colour contrasting sharply against his brother's dark suit. From this angle he can only see a part of the emblazed crest but he recognizes instantly the cinquefoil, the portcullis and the red roses, _MI5_, his mind supplies. Then he looks at his clothes and counts the number of wrinkles -_seventeen_- indicating he has been up since very early in the morning. A quick look at his brother's face confirms that this wasn't planned; Mycroft clearly hasn't had much sleep. _Problem, important, happened last night_ - Sherlock's mind all but yells at him and already his curiosity is piqued.

He tries to work out what happened but his sibling is not helping him in the slightest, he stands frozen like a statue, tauntingly challenging him. His face is devoid of emotions, not even baring the slightest of frown now; but Sherlock knows the answers are there for him to find. It has to be. He looks the tall man up and down again, feeling like he is missing in on something.

No mud or dust on his shoes to indicate where he has been recently. His suit is immaculate; his sleeves do not bare a single crumb - _no stopping at the bakery_ - or residues of cigarette ash - _no stop at the Diogenes either._ Sherlock's mind his racing and then it hits him: the suit. So obvious, yet he had somehow managed to dismiss it. Tailor made, simple and not ostentatious; black with very, very thin white stripes. Looks new but a little bit tight around the chest. Sherlock knows Mycroft has gained pounds over the winter which he hasn't quite lost yet, so the costume isn't new, it's simply _not worn often_, the detective realizes. Dark suit, special occasion: _mourning_, the final piece falls neatly into place.

"Someone was murdered last night, someone you knew. Politician of the sort I would guess. There's nothing in the papers about it so you're keeping it silent on purpose. Foul play suspected, but you don't know who did it. MI5 is involved so I'm guessing National Security's at stake: is a foreign dignitary suspected? Or perhaps was it the victim?" the young man fires rapidly and John gapes at him, Mycroft's simmering tea cup momentarily forgotten in his hand.

If the elder Holmes is surprised or impressed he doesn't let it on. He simply takes the dossier in his hand and drops it on the table in front of his brother. The sharp noise startles John and he shakes himself out of staring and hands the cup to Mycroft who takes it gladly.

"Thank you," he says and for once, he sounds genuine. From up close, John's medical eye notes the ginger-haired man seems a little tired. He sips at the tea in silence.

"Jean Layot," Mycroft starts finally, "He is one of Président Sarkozy's closest advisors. He arrived at Heathrow yesterday morning with two other delegates for a meeting on the economical situation between our two countries. He was found dead in his bathroom at the Savoy at 8.15pm."

"Needless to say," Mycroft starts again after a gulp of tea. "That the negotiations have been stopped. The French left on the first plane to Paris with the body to arrange the funeral." His mouth contorts with bitterness for a second. "He was an old man and his death was officially ruled as 'accidental'. However, no-one truly believes it. The French will be back within a week demanding explanations and we better have something to tell them by then or there will be no further negotiations and all ties between our two countries will be severed."

John is no expert in politics, but even he knows this is bad. He leans back against the kitchen top and wishes for once Sherlock would just forget his pride and take his brother's case.

"You already have MI5 working on this, what do you need me for?" the youngest questions.

"They have been at it all night and they don't have a single lead; they don't even know where to look. Time is of the essence, we could use an extra set of eyes," Mycroft replies.

"Not interested," Sherlock huffs. "I don't do _politics_."

John's about to plead in, but Mycroft beats him to it. The tall man quickly takes a step forward standing inches from the table. He leans down, placing both hands palm flat on the hard surface and locks eyes with his younger brother.

"You owe me a favour," he says coldly. "This is me, collecting."

"Not interested." Sherlock refuses again, not even impressed by Mycroft's hard glare. "Chose something else."

The battle of wills continues and John wonders if he should do or say something. Tension fills the room and although he is not at the receiving end of either of their death glares, he feels uneasy. Maybe he could slip outside unnoticed, he wonders briefly, but he doesn't dare move and even holds his breath.

Mycroft finally averts his eyes before raising himself off of the table. He stays unmoving for a few seconds, tea cup forgotten on the wooden surface and just when John thought he was going to leave the room, he does the exact opposite. He shrugs off his coat, drapes it carefully on one of the chair's back before unbuttoning his vest and sitting himself down opposite his brother.

"I knew him Sherlock, respected him," he starts again and his voice has lost all traces of coldness. "I was at that meeting; we had a private conversation before I left. Jean told me of his suspicions that someone wanted the relations between our countries to go sour."

He picks up the tea cup again, more to have something to occupy his hands than to drink form it. "If we don't solve this case rapidly, _they_ would have what they wanted," he seems to hesitate a second, before he finally decides to continue, "Whoever they are, they're powerful and everywhere: possibly even inside MI5."

Sherlock remains unresponsive and Mycroft sighs, conceding defeat.

"I'm the last one who saw him alive, Sherlock. I want to know what happened," he waits a beat then finally says it. "Please. I need your help," and the words feel so foreign on his tongue, that he briefly wonders when it was that he last asked for help, especially from his little brother.

The consulting detective remains silent and immobile for another twelve seconds, drawing it out. Then he inhales sharply, folds the morning paper and Mycroft's dossier promptly fills the empty space left inside his hands. Silver eyes quickly scan over the documents.

"Body's already en route to France, you said. Most unfortunate: I like to have a look at the bodies, and you know it," he says quickly and although John is relieved Sherlock's agreed to take the case, he has to frown at how wrong this sounds. "Examiners always miss something," the dark-haired man continues.

"Here, Doctor," he says, handing John the examiner's report and some photographs. "This is, after all, your area of expertise,"

"Time of death estimated at approximately 8pm, based on body temperature," he starts reading. "Yes, they took in account water's temperature, Sherlock," he adds when he hears the detective loudly inhaling. "Water found in the lungs, chemical compound inside matching perfectly the liquid that filled the bathtub. No evident sign of struggle, but-" his voice stops while his eyes quickly look at the pictures of the corpse. "There are some red marks on his shoulders and chest. Impossible to be certain at this point because bruising hadn't started when the pictures were taken, but most likely due to a large pair of hands forcefully holding him underwater."

He reads on silently for another minute and finally looks up at Mycroft. "Yes this was definitely not an accident," he says. "Sorry for your loss."

The ginger-haired man minutely nods and Sherlock smiles. John takes it as a cue he hasn't missed anything important, for once.

"How long do you think it took for him to drown?" Mycroft questions.

The doctor scans the file again, taking in the victim's age, size and weight. "A matter of minutes. Nothing indicates he has fought much; he was an old man, rather thin. It would have been quick." he replies.

"Security cameras?" Sherlock asks, a CD in his hands.

"Retrieved by MI5 early this morning," Mycroft confirms. "I haven't had the time to look at it yet, but there's a report of a camera malfunction between 7.58 and 8.06 last night."

Sherlock quickly rises from his chair. He makes his way to the living room, CD in hand. He grabs John's laptop on the way. The detective pulls up the camera footage and Mycroft sits next to him on the sofa to look at the images.

John decides to remain standing on Sherlock's right side. He's slightly taken aback by the turn events have taken. Seeing the two Holmes sitting next to each other and working together is a sight he never thought he would see one day. He has half a mind to take a picture, just so he can remember this day really did happen the next time the siblings are insulting each other in foreign languages again.

Sherlock follows the last movements of the deceased on screen, three cameras caught him from the moment he left the conference room to the moment he entered his bedroom with Mycroft in tow. He presses fast forward until the door opens again and his brother steps outside. He sees him exchange brief words with Layot and walk away as the old man retreats inside and closes his door.

"He was alive when you left," the detective points out with mirth as if he's surprised the camera didn't reveal his sibling to be the killer.

Mycroft doesn't deign to dignify his brother's comment with a reply. They keep staring at the footage and exactly 4 minutes and 47 seconds after the door locked the hallway disappears and static fills the screen. The image comes back 8 minutes later.

"Other camera footage from last night?" Sherlock enquires.

"No, that's all there is," his brother replies. "We have a list of everybody present inside the hotel for the night, MI5 is currently compiling information on every last one of them and trying to pinpoint their exact location at the time of death based on prior camera footage. They're being very thorough."

"I need that list," Sherlock says.

"I'll get you a copy." Mycroft doesn't miss a beat.

"Crime scene?" the younger inquires.

"It's been cleaned as we speak. You can't go there though. I don't want anyone to know you're working on this." Mycroft's glare is meaningful as he says this and he looks pointedly at Sherlock and then at John, letting them both know he really means it. "This case is highly confidential to say the least; those documents," he indicates the folder he has placed on the table, "are not supposed to have even left Thames House."

"And even _you_, are not supposed to be investigating this case," the detective reads between the lines.

Mycroft, ever the politician, doesn't agree; but he doesn't correct Sherlock either. He stands up and buttons his vest, before going to the kitchen to retrieve his coat.

"I need to leave," he says, re-entering the living. He has his phone in one hand and his umbrella in the other. "I will monitor MI5 and give you a copy of everything I can," he adds before seeing himself out.

Sherlock hums in agreement and starts pulling up some footage from the camera in the hotel's main hall.

* * *

><p>Mycroft comes back in the afternoon with another dossier tucked under his arm. This one is slightly thicker. He knocks at the door of 221B, and lets himself inside when no-one comes to open. <em>John has gone to work then<em>, he realizes.

He finds Sherlock in the living room. There's a large map of the Savoy's corridors pinned to the wall. Mycroft looks at it an instant and realizes it's made of four sheet of paper taped together. It's hand-drawn – accurately, he notes – and several colourful symbols have been added to it, indicating camera positions and personnel location. On the left of the map, several headshots taken from the security camera stand, pinned to the wall.

"I have MI5's files on the people who were inside the hotel," he tells the detective who is clicking furiously on his computer. He doesn't look up, just sways his hand vaguely gesturing at the coffee table. Mycroft takes the hint and drops the dossier on the pile of documents from this morning's report that are now covering most of the free spaces on the wooden surface. Some pages, he sees, have Sherlock's handwritten scribble on them.

"Any progress?" the oldest inquires. The detective positively hums in response.

"Care to be a little bit more specific, brother?" Mycroft prompts. He was on the phone with the director of JIC on his way to Baker Street and he knows MI5 haven't made much progress in the case. They've basically spent the day compiling information and the team is slowly going through them, shortening down the number of potential perpetrators.

"Narrowed the suspects list to six," Sherlock says pointing at the five headshots on the wall.

Mycroft's eyebrows rise up at that: MI5 are still well above fifteen. "I only see five pictures," he says careful not to let the fact he's impressed show in his voice.

"Oh," Sherlock says quietly, setting John's laptop aside. He quickly shuffles some paper, then stands up to pin a sixth picture on top of the five others, to form a pyramid. "Must have forgotten, apologies," he says and Mycroft can hear the sarcasm. He looks up to see a close up of his own face pinned on the wall. He doesn't doubt for an instant that his younger brother must have waited all afternoon for him to come back to the flat just so he could make a good show of adding Mycroft's picture to the list.

"Really, Sherlock," he says and his voice is one long suffering sigh. The youngest smiles at that; he's heard those words many times when they were growing up and Mycroft's delivery hasn't changed with the years.

"You fit the killer's description, and only exited the hotel at 8.12pm," the detective adds more professionally, "The time frame is very short, but you could have done it."

"What description?" the elder enquires rapidly, forgetting the childish joke instantly as he realizes MI5 didn't report any witness who had seen the perpetrator.

"Glad you asked," Sherlock flashes him a brilliant smile before turning the computer towards his sibling, ready for another show.

"You should really try to surround yourself with more competent employees," his brother starts, "I thought MI5 were supposed to be the best but they seem to be as daft as the yarders."

"MI5 don't work for me," Mycroft remarks absentmindedly. "And they're not incompetent."

"But you _are_ the British government," Sherlock tuts.

"I work _for_ the British government," his brother corrects him but his words seem to be lost on the younger man as he presses a few keys on the computer.

"Did you know that one of the jewellery on Strand Road was burglarized a week ago?" Sherlock asks. He continues without waiting for a reply, "It's named Eleganza; placed just in front of the Savoy's entrance and they've installed two new cameras to monitor the street. Brand new upgrade, so it's not showing in the insurance papers yet; probably why your lackey's missed this information," Sherlock jibes. "But then again, they only needed to use their eyes and they would have spotted the devices."

"I told you, you weren't to go to the crime scene!" Mycroft interjects forcefully.

"I didn't _go_ to the crime scene. I just had a stroll down the street," his brother protests. "Now do shut up, if you want to know what I found."

Mycroft effectively closes his mouth, twists his fingers absentmindedly and purses his lips, nose frowning slightly as if he'd just swallowed something foul. Sherlock presses the space bar and the video plays. It's aimed mostly at the street and the entrance of the jewellery but a part of the hotel is visible on the side. It takes him a few seconds to narrow down the window to room 423. A quick look at the time stamp indicates 7.58pm. Moments pass and the laptop's screen has Mycroft's undivided attention. His eyes are locked on the window and at 7.59 a shadow passes through, behind the glass. The shadow crosses again a few minutes later.

"The killer," he says, voice barely a whisper.

"Evidently," Sherlock replies, shutting off the laptop. He presses a printed version of a close up in his brother's hand. The image is blurry, features undistinguishable. It's merely the silhouette of a man.

"Your suspects list?" he questions, unable to comprehend how Sherlock could have narrowed it down to five with only this blurry clue.

The detective passes him another snapshot. The camera angle is identical but the silhouette is different; it's smaller and very thin.

"Ah, the killer was bulkier and a lot taller than Jean. I can see how this would rule out a lot of our suspects," Mycroft says, looking back at the six headshots on the wall.

"At least 6 foot," Sherlock informs him. "Eats a bit too much, too."

Mycroft takes back the folder he came in with and shuffles through it. He takes out the files on their suspects and hands them to Sherlock.

"Only five," his brother enquires with a mocking smile.

"I didn't do it," Mycroft replies, he cringes minutely as it involuntarily comes out petulant. "Besides what could MI5's files tell you about me that you don't already know," he adds smiling mirthlessly.

"Fair point," Sherlock concedes. "But you're staying there," he says indicating the wall.

* * *

><p>The sun is setting when John comes back home. He finds Sherlock, in full detective mode, pacing the living room. He is wired, swiftly waltzing back and forth, wild curls flying around. The place has turned into what the blogger dubs a full-fledged 'Crime Zone'. He made up the name: it's a mixture of 'War Zone' and 'Crime Files'. The former soldier finds, it accurately describes the mess of papers pertaining to the case that are haphazardly covering the coffee table and most of the wall.<p>

It is part of their routine and at this point he would normally go into the kitchen and make tea for the both of them; coming back with a plate of cookies to be put right in front of Sherlock, in the hopes that the mad-man would inadvertently eat one or two. But tonight, John doesn't move. He is frozen on the spot, his jacket still in his hand and his eyes glued on the one thing that doesn't belong in this picture: Mycroft Holmes, sitting on the sofa, eyes quickly scanning documents.

Gone is the perfectly kempt man who never goes anywhere without a three-piece suit and his bloody umbrella. Mycroft's vest is folded on the back of one of the chairs with his tie on top of it; his shirt's sleeves are rolled at his elbows and the top two buttons are open; his hair is dishevelled. The resemblance with Sherlock is uncanny and for the second time today, John has to shake himself out of gaping.

The doctor hangs his jacket and goes in the kitchen. He comes back minutes later, balancing three cups of tea and two plates of cookies on a tray.

Sherlock quickly brings his friend up to speed on the case, proudly presenting his wall of suspects. This now consists of headshots and post-it notes with various information - such as age and profession, all taken out of MI5's files - scribbled on it. John eyes the suspects and raises an eyebrow when he sees Mycroft's familiar face; the post-it stuck at the bottom of it has him smiling: _Mycroft, British government, 100 years old_.

"My brother thinks he's being funny," the man in question tells him, between a sip of tea and a cookie.

"So any idea which one did it?" the doctor asks and Sherlock shakes his head no.

"I told MI5 I remembered seeing a camera in the jewellery store. They've probably narrowed down their list like us now. Standard procedure would dictate close filature of each suspect. Maybe that'll take them to whoever ordered the hit," his older brother adds.

"But-" John starts as he eyes the post-its closely. "One American businessman, one Irish businessman, a Belgian architect and a Lord from Cornwall... None of them seem to fill the trained-killer profile," he says, "Not to mention the fifty-two years old retired Welsh surgeon."

"It has to be one of them," Sherlock says, and then inspiration strikes him and he's out of the door within seconds.

"Any idea where he's off to?" the sandy-haired man questions.

"Not a clue," the eldest Holmes replies as John sits down in his chair. He looks at the table and happily realizes Mycroft's cookie plate is empty, however the ten pieces he put in Sherlock's remain untouched. He stretches his hand and grabs it, then stacks it atop the empty one.

"Thank you," the ginger-haired man says as he gets another biscuit.

"No time for lunch, I take it," the shorter man guesses.

"It's been a long day," he confirms and the doctor notes again how tired he looks from up-close.

"You should get some rest, Mycroft. I'll make sure Sherlock lets you know what he's been up to, as soon as he comes back," the medic offers.

The elder Holmes dismisses the thought with a wave of his hand and a non-committal sound and John is struck again at how much the gesture resembles Sherlock. He gives up and chooses to straighten some of the papers on the coffee table instead. The file of the surgeon is the closest to him and he gives it a fleeting look. There's a report of the man's career; the name of the hospital where he last worked at is familiar to him. He quickly excuses himself and goes up to his room to find a phone number.

When he comes back down Mycroft has added two more post-its on the American's photo. John notes unsurprisingly that his handwriting is much easier to read than Sherlock's.

The sandy-haired man crosses the room and wordlessly grabs the picture of the Welsh surgeon, Tim Davies, and takes him off the wall. Mycroft looks up at that and eyes him sharply.

"Severe osteoarthritis," he offers in answer; the steely blue gaze doesn't waver.

"I just got off the phone with a friend of mine Henry Sommerseth. We served together in Afghanistan; he's an MD at Spire Cardiff Hospital now, where he worked alongside your suspect up until two years ago when Davies resigned," John explains, as he sits back down, "The man had to stop working when he started suffering osteoarthritis. Henry told me he almost lost a patient because his hands couldn't grip his scalpel tightly enough."

Mycroft keeps looking at him; it's a strange, intense stare, like the man can see right down to his core. He tries not to let it affect him and continues, "That was two years ago, there's no-way his condition could have improved since. It most likely aggravated," the doctor explains, "If he couldn't hold a scalped properly two years ago, there's no way he'd have had enough strength and dexterity in his hands today to force a man to drown as efficiently and quickly as our killer did."

Mycroft leans back, averts his gaze and smiles at him and it seems genuine. "I can see why Sherlock likes you," he says at last. John knows it's not really a compliment, but he takes it as one; not believing that any of the Holmes could ever utter a proper compliment anyway.

* * *

><p>Sherlock comes back from a meeting with some of his 'network', to a soundless flat two hours later. Mycroft has obviously left and John's gone to bed.<p>

The detective turns on the light and comes to stand in front of the wall again. The surgeon's photograph is gone he sees and he knows his brother wouldn't have taken it down without a good reason. He quickly deletes all pertaining information on him from his head.

"Four suspects," he tells himself pleasantly, gazing at the five snapshots. It's not much of pyramid anymore.

Mycroft has left his own picture on the wall, but Sherlock's offending post-it is now gone. Instead a square piece of paper with his older brother's neat handwriting simply states '_innocent'_. Sherlock grabs a pencil on the coffee table and adds '_until proven guilty'_ with a smirk.

Then he moves on to look at the other post-its his brother has added on the remaining photographs. He reads each of them carefully, committing the new information to memory.

**TBC.**


	4. FRIDAY

_I'm posting chapters 3 and 4 at once seeing as they're both very short. I know there's not much action going on in those two. Fear not, chapter 5 on the other hand is a mammoth with one hell of a twist.  
>Thanks for your interest and kind reviews. -K.<em>

* * *

><p><strong>The Long Week<strong>

CHAPTER 3: FRIDAY

John doesn't go to work the next day.

He phones Sarah instead and explains to her that they have a new case. It's all done quickly; the poor woman is so used to it by now, she doesn't even require convincing.

The doctor gives a fleeting thought back to the times they used to be together last year. He had sincerely believed she might have been the one. But then again, he did think the same thing of the one who came before her and the one who had followed. He hangs up his phone with a sigh and turns back to the detective who's waiting expectantly for him by the entrance door. _Sherlock_, his hyperactive, rude, arrogant and a real pain in the behind kind of flatmate: the man he has killed for and the man he has offered to give up his own life for... and the only constant in his life now, it would seem. He happily follows him outside, ready for another day of detective work.

They start with suspect number four: Lord Jeremy Hammond, from Cornwall. Mycroft's files depict him as a respectable middle aged man. He owns a large estate close to the sea, on the North shore, near Newquay. He had been married for a little over thirty years when Mrs Hammond got diagnosed with a severe case of lymphatic cancer. She passed away four months later. They didn't have children but there is a niece, Lord Hammond seems to care a lot for, if the constant pricy gifts he sends too her are anything to go by. Laura Hammond is actually the very reason for the nobleman's current stay in the capital. The twenty three years old girl is studying art and literature at University – she's an above average student with very good grades, the files have revealed - and she's currently working on a thesis on Auguste Renoir.

Knowing that, it comes as no surprise that their stay in London should happen at the same time as a special exhibit in the Tate, dedicated to the 19th century impressionist painter. Nevertheless Sherlock decides they have to be thorough and they trail the uncle and niece from the hotel to a little nearby café. Both flatmates seat at the next table while the duo from Cornwall have their breakfast and the detective listens in to their conversation while John quietly sips at his own coffee. The discussion is boring and it never strays far from French painters and the typical brush strokes of the impressionist movement. Sherlock makes a mental note to delete all of this as soon as the case is over.

When the young woman starts talking about Renoir's periode nacrée Holmes decides he's had enough and he promptly leave the café with Watson in tow.

"I'm not an expert," John starts as soon as they're out of hearing. "But I really doubt he's our killer."

Sherlock hums in reply, before adding with a smile, "And clearly his niece has a very bad taste in paintings," at John's raised eyebrow he continues."Rembrandt did some far more interesting works."

The doctor scrunches his brow in thought, the name is familiar but the details elude him, "Is it the guy who painted the carcass of an ox?" he finally asks after awhile.

Sherlock hums positively again as he hails a black cab. "Makes sense," John mutters thinking that he really shouldn't be surprised anymore.

* * *

><p>They quickly move on to suspect number two: the Irish businessman. Richard Gillen is the CEO of Advilla, a company which made billions out of selling advertising spots on the Internet. The company has been created only six years ago but its growth has been really spectacular which warranted them an article in The Mirror.<p>

According to the newspaper they even rank amongst the top five of their branch worldwide. MI5 has linked Gillen to a Londoner company Collatech, a recent start-up that specializes in creating innovating software. They have their office on Regent Street and that was Holmes and Watson's next stop.

They walk in the modern and luminous building posing as journalists and Sherlock turns on the charms as they approach the receptionist. John has to resist the urge to roll his eyes when his friend graces the young woman with his most charming and honey-dripping smile. It earns them an interview with Gillen's PA: Nora Andrews. It only takes five minutes for Sherlock to know over half a dozen different facts about the perky assistant. She's from Cork (her accent); she's got a new cat (claw marks on her left hand); she spent most of her morning on the phone (redness of her right earlobe); she's lost weight recently (the belt around her waist, she's not using the same hole as usually); perhaps due to her very recent trip to Asia (vaccine mark on her left arm); if not, then most likely due to the fact she very recently stopped smoking (pack of nicotine gum on the side of her desk, but still bears yellowish nails on her right hand); and she is really aching for a smoke right now (the way she nervously holds her pen between her fingers; Sherlock sympathizes with her on that one).

However, it only takes John two minutes to notice two other details that completely eluded the consulting detective. Ms Andrews is one hell of a chatty bird and she obviously has something for tall and blue-eyed detectives with high cheekbones. She's only got eyes for Sherlock as she explains to them that Advilla is in town to purchase a new piece of software that is going to revolutionize their advertising system, putting the Irish company well ahead of concurrence and saving them millions. Gillen is dead set on getting that program no matter the cost, she explains to them.

At the end of the meeting she even goes as far as handing Sherlock her business card - with her personal number on the back - should he want to contact her for a _follow up_. He pockets it automatically and leaves without so much as a goodbye; John chuckles all the way down in the lift at how aloof the detective can be on certain subjects.

* * *

><p>John and Sherlock divide their afternoon between suspect number one - Christopher Allerdale, a private banker from New York - and suspect number three - François Deckers, the architect from Bruges.<p>

They take a cab, going east to the City to investigate Allerdale first and discover the banker is in London on a business trip, visiting his company's local branch in town. Sherlock flashes one of Lestrade's Scotland Yard IDs to have a quick chat with one of the bank clerk. The young man confirms to them that Allerdale has been doing meetings upon meetings all week; adding that he has extended his official stay for another two days for sightseeing through the city and was due to leave England on Sunday night.

They get a glimpse of their suspect through the glass doors of a conference room and Sherlock dismisses him from the list of potential killer almost immediately: something to do with his watch and the number of folds in his pants' legs. John doesn't really understand that part, but honestly he is getting more than a little bit tired at this point and he doesn't try too hard. They've been running around London all day looking at the most boring and mundane suspects he's ever seen and he is longing for a quiet evening at the flat with some tea and crappy reality TV.

Their last stop takes them to the centre of town again, two streets north of the Savoy Hotel. They find their last suspect, Deckers, at a business centre where he is attending an architectural four-day long convention. They let themselves in discreetly and John is tasked with distracting the woman in charge of the admittances whilst Sherlock takes a peek at the guest-lists.

Of course with his usual bad luck, it isn't a pretty young woman, but a greying owl that reminds him of one of his most hated teachers in medical school that he has to sweet talk into looking the other way. _Makes sense_, he thinks bitterly and then a cold shiver runs down his spine as he notices she even has a way of looking at him from above her glasses that is identical to that of Doctor Schriver.

They're out of the building six minutes later - _not a minute too soon,_ John thinks – with the knowledge that Deckers so far hasn't missed a single lecture.

* * *

><p>"Are you sure it's one of them?" John asks once they're back in Baker Street.<p>

Sherlock looks up from the papers he has in his hand with a look of indignation as if he'd just been insulted.

"Forget I said anything," John quickly says with a wave of his hand.

"It has to be one of them," the taller man coldly says a little while later; standing and finding himself once again in front of their wall of suspects.

"I don't know which one yet, but he is good," he adds with a faint trace of awe in his voice. "He is very good." It's a tone John knows extremely well. _The game is on_.

**TBC.**


	5. SATURDAY

**The Long Week**

CHAPTER 4: SATURDAY

John wakes up to the sound of a familiar tune. Bach, his foggy mind supplies hesitantly but then he was never really good with classical music. He sits up and rolls his shoulders, glaring at the clock which brightly shines at him. It's 7:32 AM. Of course, why would he have expected Sherlock to know today was Saturday. _Weekends, how dull!_ He remembers his mad flatmate saying one day.

The doctor sighs as he limps to the bathroom, hoping he'll feel more alive after a shower.

Sherlock is dressed and seemingly ready to take on the world when the sandy-haired man enters the living room. At that, the taller man finishes the note he was playing and sets his violin down.

"Ah John, finally," he says energetically walking to retrieve his coat and the other's jacket. "No time to waste, places to go, people to see."

"Can't I just have a cup of tea first?" the doctor enquires, but Sherlock tosses him his jacket and is out of the door just as quickly. "So this is an extra-large-coffee-from-Starbucks kind of day," he mutters as he locks the door and jogs down the stairs. The consulting detective is already waiting for him in a cab.

The black car trails south and stops near Embankment and John cannot believe it but the place is already crawling with tourists. Sherlock's walking purposefully and the former soldier can see he's making a beeline for some homeless kids who are begging for spare change from the foreigners.

_Again with his bloody network,_ John thinks. He hasn't forgotten how he got arrested and wrongly charged with spray-painting a public building when they were investigating the Blind Banker case. This time, he decides, he will keep his distance. He lets Sherlock approach a young woman in her twenties and stays a few feet away, looking at the Thames. The detective joins him again moments later.

"Learnt anything useful?" John questions.

"They've been keeping tabs on our suspects for me," he replies. "Watchful little eyes spread all over the city."

He shows him some papers, mostly posters with handwritten words on their back and what looks like a napkin. The notes are from different hands, he notices. All are rather scrawny and the spelling's way off.

"Gillen spent yesterday at Regent Street, went in a club in the evening and then back to the hotel," the detective reads.

"Regent Street, that's where the company who developed the software is from," John adds. "Nothing surprising there."

Sherlock takes another poster.

"Allerdale also did 'office-lunch-office-supper-hotel," he rambles on. "Lord Hammond spent the day with his niece: Dungeon, the Eye and the Aquarium."

"Classics," John interjects and his friend raises an eyebrow at him.

"Deckers went to his convention," he starts again. "But he left early for a quick meeting not far from here," he says looking to his right.

"Could be he was meeting a friend or a relative," John suggests but Sherlock's already walking west, in direction of the place where the meeting happened.

The walk is short and the detective stops when they reach Lambeth Bridge. "There," he says. He points at a lamppost on the side of the pavement. "Deckers came all the way here from the convention centre. He waited a few minutes and met a man in this exact spot. They chatted, then both men left and went back the way they'd come from."

John is thoughtful for a moment, while the detective carefully scrutinizes the pavement around the lamppost as if it had all the answers. There are only gum and cigarette butts that could belong to anyone. A strange eerie feeling descends upon the former soldier as he looks around.

"Sherlock, you do know what's just on the other side of the street?" the shorter man questions, pointing with his chin at the large building on his right.

"Oh, Thames House," he breathes out, and then adds promptly. "Security Service's headquarters."

"Hm hm," John agrees nervously. "MI5's building. I think you should call your brother now."

Sherlock sends him a text instead.

_[Need CCTV footage. Yesterday afternoon, Lambeth Bridge. -SH]_

They're walking back towards Embankment when Sherlock's phone beeps.

_[My office, backdoor. Twenty minutes. -MH]_

* * *

><p>John thought he was lucky to be living in London. He'd always found the city to be quite beautiful and there was so much history attached to it. He remembers older times when his mother would take Harry and him on a tour of the famous landmarks.<p>

"Whitehall," she'd say when they were passing in the neighbourhood. "That's were everything's decided; all the important people of our Nation work here."

John never actually thought he would enter any one of these buildings one day. _Life is full of surprises,_ he thinks: Buckingham Palace a few weeks ago and the Cabinet Office today; his mother would be proud. Although the accomplishment is slightly tarnished by the fact they are ushered in through the backdoor.

Both men pass security without incident and then a middle-aged woman wordlessly escorts them to Mycroft's office. John notices they're only using service stairs and narrow corridors and he feels almost like he is playing spies in a James Bond movie.

As they enter the elder Holmes' office he regrets once again that they're using a small and plain white door instead of the large mahogany double door he can see on the other side of the room. He's almost sure to be missing in on the engraved plate with Mycroft's name and function that is undoubtedly plastered on the other side of the wood. John wonders if he will one day finally learn the man's true position within the British government. Maybe he could ask Sherlock, although the young man probably has deleted the information a long time ago.

Mycroft closes the file he was looking at and sits up when they enter. John does a double take of the room. It's spacious and there's a large window. A desk adorns the opposite side of the room: it's massive, wooden and clearly ancient. There are some cabinets running along the left wall and two chairs that look really comfortable. Yes, he realises, that is exactly what his mind had imagined, save for one little detail.

"No framed picture of the queen, then?" he asks aloud. The words are out of his mouth before he has time to stop himself. Mycroft smiles tightly at him in return and he wonders if he's going to be kidnapped and taken to some abandoned factory again sometimes soon.

"Top drawer, left side," Sherlock chirms in with a smirk and his brother pretends not to have heard. "Next to the brownies he keeps for emergencies," he adds in a more ushered tone.

"Lambeth Bridge?" the tall ginger-haired man enquires instead, efficiently redirecting the conversation well away from him.

"Yes, the Belgian – Deckers - left his convention early yesterday and went all the way down to a meeting with a man on Lambeth Bridge," Sherlock says. "Surely the team MI5 assigned to surveying him must have notified you. Did they provide some photographs of the man Deckers was meeting with?"

"There was no such report," Mycroft says frowning. "They said he stayed at the business centre until five and then went back straight to his hotel." He pauses and walks closer to Sherlock. "Are you sure of your information?"

"Yes, obviously," the consulting detective scoffs as if the question was some kind of insult. Which, to him, it probably was.

His elder brother walks back behind his desk and leans down to type a few keys on his computer.

"There are several cameras covering Lambeth Bridge," the man states.

"North side, near the roundabout, approximately 4pm yesterday," the youngest supplies as he joins Mycroft behind the desk. John follows without being told.

The CCTV footage from two cameras comes up quickly on the screen.

"The angle's not right," Sherlock says immediately, and then points to a place off-screen, "This is where the meeting happened."

"A blind spot, how convenient," Mycroft says in a monotone as they keep watching. At 4:06 PM, Deckers is briefly seen crossing the street on camera number one. Then he disappears out of the frame. Camera number two catches a glimpse of him hailing a cab twelve minutes later.

Mycroft rewinds the images but with the amount of tourists stopping for pictures, passers-by and the unfortunate limited cameras angles it's impossible to know who Deckers was meeting.

"MI5 really didn't report this happening?" John questions suddenly.

"No, they didn't," Mycroft confirms with just enough disdain, clearly unhappy at this turn of events.

"And Thames House _is_ just around the corner," the shorter man adds, voicing his inner thoughts aloud once more.

"Yes, I'm well aware," the ginger-haired man replies and John feels like he should have kept his mouth shut again. Then the elder Holmes turns his computer shut and walks off to the window, deep in thoughts.

"This is far worse than I imagined," Mycroft says at length, turning to face his guests again.

"What are you going to do with this information," Sherlock questions him.

"If I bring _this_ to my superiors," he says indicating the CCTV footage on his computer, "They will arrest Deckers but we'll never know who gave the orders. They will either help him escape or have him killed to make sure he doesn't talk."

"So we follow him, hoping he will meet with his contact again," Sherlock proposes.

"Can we ask Lestrade for help?" John wonders.

"No. I'm afraid we have to stay away from the official channel," Mycroft responds.

"Meaning John and I must to do all the work," Sherlock ruefully says.

"I'll help as much as I can," Mycroft assures him.

* * *

><p>They set up a surveillance rotation on Deckers and John takes the first shift. Mycroft is coerced into taking the second.<p>

As the former soldier walks to the conference centre he marvels again at the fact that Sherlock managed to convince his brother to help out. The thought of the ginger-haired man hiding in the shadows and playing detective makes him smile. As he waits to cross a street, he tries to picture him in a long black coat and chuckles. Off course, the elder Holmes tried to avoid the chore - coming up with excuses such as North Korea and potential terrorist attacks - but Sherlock had all but refused to hear any of it. Apparently Mycroft had sealed his fate when he'd said he would _help as much as he can_.

The Holmes brothers really do have a strange relationship, to say the least, John muses. But all things considered, he's sure that, deep down, it is nothing more than a regular case of sibling rivalry. Well, a really _extreme_ case of sibling rivalry to be perfectly honest, but this comes as no surprise seeing as both men never seem to do anything in halves.

With a small smile still tucked at the corner of his lips the doctor moves forward in the midday crowd of Londoners, resolving himself to impending long hours of surveillance.

**TBC.**


	6. SUNDAY

**The Long Week**

CHAPTER 5: SUNDAY

A very good scholarship, plus a long and arduous internship to achieve his doctorate; then he joined her Majesty's Army where he was bloody heroic, even if he did say so himself. And look where all that led him… He is sipping a cold coffee in a bar on a Sunday morning, whilst surveying a man sitting two tables behind him, via his reflection on a window.

John sighs. He hates surveillance and this man has to be the most boring killer he's ever met. He's been here for two very long hours and all he's done is drawing whatever in his notebook; occasionally chatting up the bar lady who keeps asking him if he wants some more coffee. John looks murderously at his own mug. Not once did she come to him, offering a refill. _Must be because of the French accent,_ he thinks.

_[Bored!]_ he texts Sherlock on impulse, smiling at the role reversal.

His phone chirms back within seconds.

_[Look at the ladies. -SH] _

The blogger sighs again and feels like dropping his phone in the black liquid that rests in his mug.

A second text arrives quickly. _[Be there in twenty. -SH]_

Deckers asks for the bill ten minutes later. Watson throws a few pounds on the table after the man departs. He follows him, making sure to leave a good distance between them. Deckers walks down the avenue and turns left, stopping at a bus stop. John frowns and quickly reaches for his phone, hitting Sherlock's speed dial.

"Yes," he answers and the former soldier can hear street noise in the background.

"You on the way?" he asks quickly.

"Yes, two blocks away. What happened?" he enquires.

"Deckers' on the move. He's waiting for a bus at the corner of Chenies Street and North Crescent. I can't get on board without him recognising me from the bar, Sherlock!" John says nervously.

"I'm almost there," the detective assures him and the line goes dead.

Watson leans against the corner of a nearby building, still clutching his phone in his hand. He nervously looks at his watch, 11:43, which is completely stupid he realizes as he has absolutely no idea when the next bus is due. Deckers is still at the bus stop and Sherlock's nowhere to be seen.

"Hurry up," the doctor curses under his breath as a familiar looking red bus appears at the corner of the street. The two women also waiting at the stop stand up; Deckers edges closer to the road. John searches ahead for a familiar dark-haired lean silhouette, but sees only passers-by. The bus comes to a stop and both doors open. Seconds before they close, a tall man rushes in, in a swirl of black coat and the nervous doctor breathes a sigh of release.

_[That was close!]_ he texts, as the bus starts again.

_[I had plenty of time left. -SH] _his friend replies after the bus has disappeared on the horizon. The text took longer to arrive than John had expected. In his mind, he can imagine Sherlock catching back his breath, slouched in his seat.

_[Going to grab a bite to eat, let me know where you get off at.]_ John replies as he starts walking to a sandwich shop he saw on the way from the bar.

He is halfway through his desert when his phone beeps again.

_[Savoy Hotel. Go back to 221B; I'll stay here until Mycroft takes the next shift. -SH]_

John doesn't need to be told twice. The morning had been warm and sweaty and he was looking forward to a nice shower and an entire afternoon of peace and quiet in front of the telly.

* * *

><p>Night is falling now, and Sherlock still sits on a bench near the hotel's entrance. He's watched Deckers enter a little over six hours ago. Then he's seen, higher up on the road, a dark Volvo parks moments after the man's arrival. Two occupants inside: a man and a woman. <em>Not in a relationship, although he clearly seems interested<em>. They haven't moved since: _MI5_.

The detective was trying to distract himself by guessing if the hotel's many guests who kept coming in and out were legally wed or having an affair. He is busy deducing a visibly rich grey-haired man (married) who is followed by a young and tall woman with long blond curls (prostitute, wears a wig, not really a woman) when against all odds, Deckers exits the hotel rapidly. Sherlock reaches for his phone and calls Mycroft instantly. It was almost time for his brother's shift and he was probably well on his way already.

"Yes, Sherlock," his sibling picks up on the first ring.

"Decker's on the move, going east on foot," he dutifully informs him as he tightens his scarf high around his neck and starts trailing him. "I'll follow him but I have to leave some distance. He's had a good look at me earlier," he adds.

His brother hums in response and the detective can hear the shuffling of cloth as he lowers his phone and leans forward. In the distance he faintly ears Mycroft ordering his driver to stop. A few seconds later, the young man sees a large black car drive by. He keeps walking, with his eyes fixed on Deckers. He absentmindedly notices the Volvo hasn't moved, but files the thought as _'unimportant'_.

"I see him," Mycroft informs him on the phone suddenly and Sherlock takes a left turn in the next perpendicular alley; disappearing in the shadows.

"I'm heading back to Baker Street," the detective tells him. "Do _try_ not to lose him, Mycroft." he adds before hanging up.

* * *

><p>Two left turns later, Sherlock is walking back to the main road to hail a cab home. That's when he sees it: a familiar looking car driving off in the distance. It's a dark blue Volvo, licence plate LU 54 ACL. The detective freezes on the spot as the facts pile up.<em> It makes no sense,<em> he thinks quickly. If the MI5 had seen Deckers leaving the Savoy they would have followed him right away, but the duo hadn't moved. _How could they have missed him?_ Yet, the car had remained in its spot, occupants seemingly oblivious. And now here they are, driving away in the wrong direction. _Something's not right._

Sherlock quickly pulls out his phone and calls his brother again. It rings three times then goes to voice mail and the young man swears under his breath.

He quickly starts walking again, and trails all the way back to the place where he has last seen the Belgian killer. He is unsure of the direction the man took next. He had seemed to be going south and the detective heads off that way. He tries his brother's cell again twice and over thirty minutes have gone by when the elder finally picks up.

"Where are you?" he asks before Mycroft has time to properly greet him.

"Lambeth, abandoned textile factory just south of the station," his brother all but whispers in the phone. Sherlock quickly realizes his supposition was right and he's been walking in the correct direction, but he is still about fifteen minutes away from the station.

"MI5 stooges left their post, they were going north," his younger sibling informs him.

"They've been sent on the wrong track again?" the other asks incredulous, "Deckers must be meeting with his contacts or his boss perhaps."

"Mycroft, don't," Sherlock says quickly guessing where his brother's train of thought was going to lead him.

"Got to go," the eldest breathes out, ending the call.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock shouts pointlessly in his phone but the line is dead already. He puts the device back in his pocket and starts running in the general direction of the station. In his mind, he is trying to see if he remembers ever seeing a textile factory in the neighbourhood.

* * *

><p>Mycroft turns his phone off as he stalks forward in the fading day light. He crouches down next to a window and slowly raises his head to peer inside. The glass is covered in dust so he can't see anything.<p>

Swearing under his breath, he moves swiftly to the left side of the building. He finds more windows but they all are in the same state. Finally, he gets to one which is covered by a plain plank of wood. The nails are old and rusted and Mycroft uses his umbrella as a lever. They come loose easily and soundlessly. He removes the piece of wood and gazes inside through the broken window.

The factory has been vacated years ago if the dust is anything to go by. The large room is mostly empty, save for a table in a corner and some broken machinery. There's no one inside but he can hear a faint voice coming from another room. He strains to make out the words but they are undistinguishable.

Mycroft crouches back down and quickly takes stock of the situation. He doesn't have many options. Call for help is one, but without knowing who is a mole and who isn't: it's a dangerous move. He could keep watching the building, but without knowing which exit his target is going to take: he'd risk not seeing anything at all and all this would have been pointless. He knows calling his brother and John to assist should even the odds, but he is certain the meeting would be well over by the time they'd get here. That leaves him with only one option: _legwork_.

Sitting up slowly, he leans against the window frame and quickly tosses his umbrella inside, before putting both hands on the dusty windowsill to lift himself inside. He tries to land as quietly as possible and quickly retrieves his umbrella. He has not played spy like this in years - not since he started working for the government - but he hasn't forgotten and he slips back into the routine easily, like riding a bike.

He takes a few quick steps to the door and leans against the wall, out of sight. He listens in: the voices are louder but the words are still indistinct. He peers at the corner but only sees more emptiness. There are stairs on his left and the faint glow of a lamp coming from somewhere above. His resolve wavers slightly but he knows he doesn't have a choice. He thinks back on Jean's words of warning and what they had cost to the man. He swiftly makes his way to the stairs and starts climbing on the tip of his toes. He is tensed, ready to flight at the first sign of trouble.

The voices grow louder as he reaches the upper floor. Two men; talking somewhere on the left. Mycroft flattens himself against the wall. He is inches away from the corner and his heart is beating fast in his chest. He takes his phone out of his pocket and uses the screen as a mirror to look past the corner without being seen. It's not the best reflective surface but it's enough to give him an idea of the layout. There's no one in sight, just another corridor with a series of doors.

The killer and his accomplice must be inside one of the rooms, he realizes. Carefully, without making a sound he moves into the corridor. Now he can see clearly that the third door on his right is slightly ajar, light peering out of it. He stops next to entrance number two and tries the handle. It opens. He pushes it wide open as he listens on.

"They don't have a clue," someone says with a slight French accent and Mycroft identifies him as Deckers.

"Why would they?" a second man replies with a more familiar Londoner intonation, "Everything went according to the plan. MI5 are still dancing on their strings and when the French come back to ask for an explanation they won't get one."

"This will halt the negotiations," Deckers agrees.

"Yes, now we can move to the next stage of our plan," the man explains and Mycroft inches closer to make sure he can hear that part correctly.

"I still don't know what that is," Deckers says, clearly impatient.

"That's because I'm afraid you won't be here for it, François," the Englishman coldly replies.

What happens next is confusing to Mycroft. He ears shuffling and a surprised gasp. The sound is quickly followed by some gurgling noise and what is unmistakably the sound of a body that falls to the ground. Mycroft's blood turns cold as he realises what's happening on the other side of the wall. He quickly takes a step back to hide inside the previous room. That's when he notices movement out of the corner of his eye.

He tightens his hold on his umbrella, ready to take a fighting stance as he turns around but he isn't quite fast enough. Pain explodes within his skull and he literally sees stars. Thankfully it only last seconds before his world goes black and all pain disappears. He falls limply to the ground, unconscious.

* * *

><p>The first thing Mycroft Holmes is aware of is pain. A terribly strong mind-numbing pain; it feels like his head is being ripped in halves. The second thing that registers, moments later, is the cold, hard and uncomfortable surface he is laying on. It's difficult for him to string together coherent thoughts and <em>'Not good'<em> is the best his mind can come up with at the moment.

He breathes deeply for a few beats, as he tries to overcome the pain and finally he forces his eyes to half-open with a moan. He doesn't see much beside concrete and a dark and filthy room. He slowly sits up, his head protesting painfully and that's when he realizes one of his hands is sticky. He brings it in sight, squints and discovers his fingers are coated in what suspiciously looks like blood. He quickly checks himself over but doesn't notice any apparent wound, so he expends the search. When his eyes take in the left side of the room everything falls into place.

The man he was after, François Deckers, – it takes him a few seconds to remember the name - is lying on the floor, motionless and a large puddle of blood's already started to form next to his torso. Some of the crimson fluids stained his right trouser leg, he notices. The body is on its side and Mycroft turns him on his back to have a better look. The head lolls limply and he notices the severed carotid artery.

The bright lights of a passing car momentarily flood the room and a flash of silver catches his eye, he reaches for it on impulse. His right hand curls around a metallic object and it's only when he looks at it closely that he realises it's a knife. '_Not good'_ his lethargic mind supplies again but before he has time to think further the sound of nearing footsteps distract him. Someone's coming and he tightens his hold on the blade whilst he tries to get back on his feet.

The world spins around him with a vengeance and he feels like throwing up. Everything goes dangerously black and he sways, letting go of the knife to put his hand on the wall to halt his fall. He fights hard to hold onto consciousness, but he cannot make it further than kneeling, half-splayed against the wall for support. The intruder is getting closer and Mycroft still has his eyes tightly shut in a desperate attempt to fend off the bout of nausea. He tries to open them again, but his body is unnervingly uncooperative.

"Mycroft?" a familiar voice startles him and he wonders if he's dreaming. If only he could see, he would know for sure.

"Mycroft," the voice asks again, closer this time. Really close. _"Mye,"_ the nickname feels like a distant memory and this time he is certain to be dreaming. Only suddenly there are hands on his shoulders and he is hoisted up. He falters dangerously: long legs not quite understanding the rapid change of stance. His left arm suddenly finds itself draped around bony shoulders and a strong arm tightly grips him around his middle. The world seems to steady itself and it's easier to breathe.

"We need to get away from here, Mycroft," the man who sounds like his brother says and he slowly opens his eyes to make sure it's him. Everything's blurry but the silhouette on his left really does look like Sherlock. He tries to say something but he isn't quite sure if he's managed to form articulated words.

"I know," his brother replies. _Well,_ he thinks, _must have been coherent enough then_. Only he realises he has no idea what he's just said.

Sherlock starts dragging him away through the door and they're halfway down the stairs when the familiar sound of police sirens echoes in the distance. They both freeze, or rather the younger Holmes freezes: Mycroft is still mostly a dead weight on his side, following the motion. All he does is try his best not to fall and/or pass out. The detective looks his brother over and does some quick calculations in his head, deciding on the best course of action.

His mind set, the brunette resumes moving; grabbing on his brother a bit more forcefully as he tries to quicken their pace. Mycroft looses track of time, all he can focus on at this stage is to put one foot in front of the other.

At some point he faintly registers cold air on his face but his eyes are closed again so he isn't sure where the wind is coming from, _are they outside?_ There's a lot more of the _one-foot-in-front-of-the-other_ routine until they finally stop and Mycroft is grateful.

Except Sherlock releases his hold around his waist and decides to start banging against a door instead, loudly. Mycroft really wishes he wouldn't do that because, _oh god it hurts_. He wants to tell him to stop, but bile rises in his throat and he feels like it's perhaps best to keep his mouth shut at the moment. The pounding finally stops as the door opens and his brother starts talking. Mycroft tries to keep up with the conversation but there are too many words and they're spoken too fast.

He picks up on some keywords though: _money, room, help, police. _Hetries to store them away, thinking he can try and make sense of all of this later: when his head stops hurting like fireworks are going off inside his skull and he's done feeling as if he is on some boat caught in the storm of the century. Sherlock's forcing him to move again; he says something, but there's blood beating loudly in his eardrums and the words are lost on him.

* * *

><p>Sherlock's covered in sweat by the time they reach the little studio, next to the brick garage of a depressing and beat down house whose paint is peeling off on every side. He drops his brother on the bed and straightens his aching back.<p>

"Diet not going so well, then?" he says but there's no response and it looks like Mycroft didn't even hear him.

"Shit," he breathes out. He passes a hand over his face as he tries to organize his thoughts. _MI5, cops, dead Belgian guy,_ "Shit," he curses loudly again.

He takes off his coat and tosses it on a nearby chair. He retrieves his cell from his vest's pocket and promptly takes the battery out. He puts both items on the night stand, before patting his sibling's pockets in search of his phone. He finds it in Mycroft's left breast pocket and quickly dismantles it before taking a deep breath. He wrinkles his nose in disgust. The place reeks of old and settled dust. He opens the window and draws the thick dark red curtain closed. Then he goes in the bathroom where he grabs a towel which he quickly soaks in cold water before returning to his brother.

The elder Holmes hasn't moved and his breathing is still a little laboured.

"Mycroft?" Sherlock asks softly as he sits down next to him on the side of the bed, turning on the lamp on the nightstand. When he doesn't get a response he slowly turns him on his left side so he can have a good look at the back of his brother's head. There's a lump quickly forming and dried blood. It's easy for Sherlock to deduce what happened:_ someone got to him by surprise_, _knocked him out cold from behind._ He cleans the wound as gently as he can but the young man stirs in discomfort, moaning something unintelligible into the pillow. Sherlock finishes his work and then sets to clean his brother's face. There's a small cut above his right eye and a fine trail of blood_: hit his head on the floor when he lost consciousness_. As he works on Mycroft's face he lets his gaze travel down on the eldest's right side. His expensive suit is ruined, covered in dust and particle of concrete; there are scuffed marks on his shoe: _dragged on the ground to the room where I found him_. And then Sherlock sees it: Mycroft's right hand, covered in Deckers' blood. He cleans that too.

"Left unconscious on the crime scene, the victim's blood on your hand. Oh brother what have you gotten yourself into," he says out loud. Then he remembers another detail in a flash: Mycroft on his knees leaning against the wall; a bloodied knife next to his right hand. "Not good," he says as he realises whose prints and DNA the police will find on the murder weapon. "Really not good."

* * *

><p>Mycroft Holmes always was a heavy sleeper.<p>

It could sometimes take him an awfully long time to quiet down his thoughts enough to be able to fall asleep but once he'd succumbed he would be sleeping the sleep of the dead until the next day.

It was something that had come in really handy when his little brother had started taking violin lessons at the age of eight. He remembers the youngest Holmes explaining to their distraught mother that it was easier for him to practice in the middle of the night because _'the effin place is finally quiet'. _She didn't like it a bit, but that was never enough to stop the little boy. Yes, as far back as he can remember, he has always been a heavy sleeper, which is why he finds it oddly strange to wake up to what is undeniably the middle of the night, if the lack of light is anything to go by.

He is in bed, but he doesn't recognize the room and the thought is worrisome. He tries to sit up to look around more clearly but the motion sends unexpected spikes of pain shooting through his skull and he moans in discomfort. _'Easy Mye,'_ a voice says softly on his left and there's suddenly a hand on his shoulder, effectively stilling him.

"Sherlock?" he asks clearly thrown and his voice comes out thick. The detective gently helps him up to a sitting position and – really when had the younger man ever been gentle with him? - now he is thoroughly confused.

"You're concussed," Sherlock explains, "Got hit on the head,"

Mycroft doesn't remember it, yet he thinks that's something one shouldn't forget: getting hit on the head, it doesn't happen every day.

"It's because of the concussion," his brother explains and Mycroft realises he must have spoken his thoughts aloud somehow, how confusing.

Sherlock presses a glass of water in his hands and he drinks contentedly. He hadn't realised how thirsty he was until the first drop makes it down his throat. It helps him clear up his thoughts and he takes in the room he's in for the first time. It's small and simple. A door on his right: bathroom he guesses. There's a table along the wall to his right and further down the entrance door; a small oven with a cooking plate atop is in the far left corner. He notes the bed is taking most of the room. He looks higher up, just past Sherlock who is sitting on the bedside next to him, and sees a chair facing the window. The curtain is slightly drawn back: _Sherlock was sitting there looking outside, _he thinks, _keeping an eye on me as well_, he realises, taking in the odd angle.

"We're still in Lambeth," his brother answers the question he hasn't had time to ask yet, "I worked a case around here last year, know the owner. Cheaper than a hotel, there's no paperwork involved and no-one to ask questions."

Mycroft finishes the water in silence and Sherlock pries the glass from his fingers. He sets it down on the bedside table on his brother's left.

"How are you feeling?" the youngest finally asks and the wounded man has to ponder the question a little.

"Concussed," he replies, voice a little hazier than usual. He doesn't like how slow his thoughts are.

Sherlock lets out a huff of a laugh at that. Then he settles into silence again and that's when Mycroft realises the younger man still hasn't moved. He his sitting on the side of the bed facing him, with his left leg bent and hooked behind his right knee. His right leg hangs on the side of the bed. Mycroft takes in his posture, slightly hunched forward, shoulders slumped, eyes blinking a little more than usual.

"You look exhausted," he tells his brother finally, and really he should have noticed this earlier, why was his mind working so slowly.

"Had to half carry you here," Sherlock explains, eyes still downcast, "You really should lay off John's cookies," he adds with a smile. "You weigh a ton,"

Mycroft knows he ought to be offended and say something but he can't help himself from smiling. The banter is familiar and oddly comforting.

"Get some sleep," he says instead with all the big brother authority he can muster at the moment, which is not much.

Sherlock seems to hesitate, looking back minutely towards the window.

"How long have we been here?" the oldest asks understanding the cause of his worry.

"Little over two hours," he says after a look at his watch.

"If they knew where we are, they would have found us already. MI5 and the police don't have a clue; we're safe for the night," Mycroft assures him.

Sherlock seems to agree with him. He quickly gets up and pulls the curtain closed before placing the chair back next to the table. Then he sits on the right side of the bed with a yawn and removes his shoes before lowering himself on top of the covers. He lies on his right side with his back towards his older brother. Mycroft slides back down slowly and lets sleep claim him again.

**TBC.**


	7. MONDAY

_Happy Easter everybody!  
>-K. <em>

* * *

><p><strong>The Long Week<strong>

CHAPTER 6: MONDAY

On Monday morning, John wakes up to someone banging loudly on his door. He is ready to yell at Sherlock to go get lost when he realises something's not quite right. There's someone knocking alright, but it's not against his bedroom door: the sounds come from the lower floor. He gets up quickly and grabs his robe on the way out of the room.

He opens the front door to reveal Lestrade and Donovan and he can see from their faces that something's very wrong. They walk in before the army veteran has time to say a word.

"Is he here?" the DI questions rapidly.

"Who?" John asks, blinking away the last of his sleep.

"The freak!" Sally interjects quickly.

"What has he done now?" the doctor sighs as he walks in the kitchen to put the kettle on. He hears doors open and close and Lestrade is back in the kitchen minutes later.

"Sherlock's not here," he says. "John, do you know where he is?" he asks with urgency.

"I just woke up, Greg," he replies. "Now will you tell me what the hell he's done this time?"

"We're not looking for him actually." He seems to falter a little suddenly. "We've got orders from high up-" he explains and accompanies the words with a wave of his right hand _way_ above his head. "-to find and arrest Mycroft Holmes."

John all but spits out the mouthful of tea he's just swallowed.

"Come again?" he says incredulously, still coughing a little, because of the tea that went down his windpipe. "Greg, do you know who Mycroft works for?"

"I know he is suspected of murder," the Yarder soberly replies.

"Madness must run in the family," Sally chirps in and the doctor feels like he could slap her if he wasn't so completely astounded by the news.

"The orders came straight from Whitehall. Priority number one; absolutely zero public disclosure," the DI continues. "Now John, do you know where Sherlock is?"

"I haven't got a clue," he says honestly. "We were on a case, he was supposed to be back late last night but he never showed up."

"What case?" Donovan asks.

"Murder investigation. For Mycroft," he adds somewhat reluctantly. "Who's your victim?"

"A Belgian architect called François Deckers" Lestrade answers, looking at his notebook. "What?" he asks when he sees John visibly falter.

"That was our suspect," he says and suddenly he really is worried for Sherlock.

* * *

><p>Once the shock has passed, John sits down and starts explaining. He recounts the past couple of days' events as clearly as he can, beginning with Layot's murder on Wednesday night. Then he moves on to the next four days of investigating and Sherlock's various breakthroughs in the case. He tries hard not to forget any important detail, focuses on the facts as the consulting detective would have done if he'd been here.<p>

"So Sherlock's brother knew the first victim, hired you two to find out who did it and now we have his prints and DNA on the weapon that killed your prime suspect," Sally says once the doctor is done with his explanations. "Well, it certainly doesn't take a _genius_ to see the connections," she adds bitterly and with just enough disdain.

"No," John exclaims ignoring her and looking at Lestrade with an intense gaze, "Not Mycroft. There must be an explanation. I know him and I know he wouldn't do that."

"How well do you know him, John?" the DI asks. "I've met him only a couple times, bloke's kinda scary."

"Not to mention that bloody umbrella of his he takes everywhere, even when it's sunny. I'm sure there's a blade in it," Donovan adds. "Besides it's a Holmes, wouldn't put anything past 'em."

"Oh shut up, Sally!" John all but yells; his patience now completely gone. "Yes, Mycroft can be intimidating and scary and yes he's got that bloody power complex of his." He looks the DI straight in his eyes, "but he wouldn't just kill a man like that, purely for vengeance," he says, and he finds out he actually wholly believes in his own words.

He remembers all the times he's met with his friend's older sibling. He knows he is special: like Sherlock in a way; but his heart is in the right place. It's blatantly obvious to him now; it shows in the way he cares for his brother, and the way he went out of his depth to solve this case.

"Even if," John says as he stands up and takes a step towards Lestrade. "Even if he'd done it." His voice takes a harder, more assertive edge, reminiscent of his days in the army. "You would _never_ have found the body." He pauses to let the words sink in. "Mycroft's just as clever as Sherlock: he'd have gotten rid of all the evidences. Not to mention never - not in a million years - leaving the murder weapon with his fingerprints on it for you to find." He takes a breath then and tries to calm himself a little.

"It's a set up Lestrade, you _have_ to see that," John pleads. "This whole thing was all but gift-wrapped and handed to you on a silver platter."

"What I think is irrelevant, John," the DI says with reluctance but the shorter man can see his words had an impact. "My hands are tied, and the orders are to find and arrest Mycroft Holmes. As far as everyone's concerned: he's done it. _All_ the evidences point out in that direction."

"Then I have nothing more to tell you," John says, extending his left arm and motioning for them to leave the flat.

Sally goes out first and Lestrade lingers a little. When she's halfway down the stairs, he turns on his heels and walks back inside quickly, closing the door behind him.

"You _have_ to find Sherlock," he says with urgency. "This case stinks. This isn't normal procedure; everyone got a call from their bosses' boss this morning, including me. They're putting a lot of pressure on us: they want Mycroft found and dealt with quickly." He pauses for an instant before adding in a low voice, "And Scotland Yard's not the only ones looking: Security Service's also onto him."

"MI5, oh my God!" John falters. "If Sherlock's in the way-" he's afraid to finish his sentence.

"He'll go down with his brother," the DI confirms heavily, "And there'll be nothing even _I _can do,"

Lestrade's phone chirms and he looks at it sharply, frowning. "I have to go," he says, "But find him, John. And quickly!"

John doesn't need to be told twice. He closes the door behind the DI and all but runs to his phone, calling his flatmate's cell with urgency. It goes straight to voice mail.

"Sherlock, where the hell are you?" John quickly speaks into the receiver. "Lestrade's just left, he said- Oh my god Sherlock it's a mess - this whole case. It's, it's-" he's stammering now but that doesn't stop him, "Mycroft. They think Mycroft's done it! And MI5's involved. God! And-" the phone beeps telling him he's reached the end of the allotted recording time.

He lowers the device and looks at it with a murderous gaze. Then he thinks about the message he's just left and how it doesn't make much sense. _Facts, data: focus_! He can almost hear Sherlock's voice in his head. He presses the call button again.

"Sherlock, I don't know where you are or if you're with your brother. If you're not with him, you need to find him, _fast_! He's going to need your help. If you're with him then you need to call me, _fast_! You're both going to need my help. Either way... _call me_!" he says and this time the message is crystal clear.

With the cell phone still clutched tightly in his hand, he lets himself fall down in his chair and he passes a wary hand on his face. He looks at the dozen of papers on the coffee table, gazes up at the wall which still has the photographs of their suspects. Mycroft's familiar face greets him from the top of the list.

'_Innocent'_ the post-it reads. _'until proven guilty'_.

"If only it was this simple," John sighs heavily to himself, looking down at his phone which remains painfully silent. He realises that he doesn't have the faintest idea where Sherlock is.

He doesn't even know where to start looking.

* * *

><p>Mycroft wakes up mid-morning, hungry and thirsty. He sits up slowly and notices he's alone in the small room. The events of last night come back to him hazily, some parts are still rather blurry; like everything that happened after he woke up next to a body up until the point where he woke up here last night. <em>Here<em>, he thinks bitterly looking at the small room. He doesn't even know where _here_ is.

He sits up slowly, mindful of his still-throbbing head and walks to the window. He notices somewhat optimistically that the nausea is mostly gone now. He pulls back the heavy curtain and peers outside. The sun hits him in the face and he winces, squinting against the light that sends spikes through his head. He recognises some of the landmarks and gets a pretty accurate estimate of where he is. Not one of the most charming parts of town, he notes, but a good place for a wanted man to hide.

He grabs the glass still resting on the nightstand and walks to the bathroom, which turns out to be a very small shower room. He tries to ignore the dust and what suspiciously looks like mould in one of the ceiling's corner; he puts the glass back on the side of the off-white porcelain sink. There used to be a tumbler holder, he sees, but two screws inside the tiles are all that's left of it now.

He moves to the toilet and relieves himself than goes back to the sink to wash his hands. There's a mirror above the basin and he is startled by his own reflection as he looks up. He's got a cut and some bruising on his right side and his eyes are red-rimmed. His hair - which he should have gotten cut at least two weeks ago but didn't have the time to - is a mess. He sighs, realising he hasn't looked this bad in a long while.

He chances a glance down on his clothes and discovers he's only wearing his trousers and his dress shirt. He doesn't recall taking off his vest or his waistcoat and supposes Sherlock must have done it. Socks and shoes are also missing. He looks at the garments again and notices the many folds and creases. There's also dust and blood and particles of concrete and-. He closes his eyes shut tightly and forces his thoughts to stop! He doesn't want to be reading the evidences of what happened to him last night.

He quickly removes all his clothes and carelessly lets them fall in a heap on the floor, before stepping in the shower. He turns the water on and the pipes groan loudly. It takes time but water finally pours out of the hose. It's lukewarm at best but it's enough. He steps gingerly beneath the spray and lets the water wash away the dirt. The droplets fall on him in a cascade, massaging his tensed shoulders and he wishes the memories could also disappear down the drain.

He feels marginally better and refreshed when he steps out of the shower tray and although his head still hurts, his thoughts are much clearer. He grabs a towel and dries himself before tying it around his waist and walking back in the bedroom. He scans it with a critical eye this time and looks for signs of what his brother's been up to. He can still see the imprint his own body left in the bed; Sherlock's form on the other side is not as easier to distinguish, meaning he's probably been out of bed for at least two hours as a rough estimate. He finds his vest and waistcoat folded on the back of the small wooden chair. _Ruined as well._ His phone and Sherlock's are on the table - both batteries removed - next to them he finds what he instantly recognizes as his own wallet. He retrieves it, unsurprised to realise all the money is gone. He does some quick calculation and knows he must have had a little over a hundred pounds in it. He guesses Sherlock could not have had more on him either, probably less actually.

He's shaken out of his thoughts by the sound of a key in the front lock. He tenses and looks up apprehensively; only relaxing when he sees it's Sherlock.

"Good, you're awake," the younger man says before handing him one of the plastic bags he's holding. "Clothes," he adds.

Mycroft takes it with a nod and turns back to go change in the shower room.

"They didn't have anything larger than XXL, I'm afraid," Sherlock's voice follows him in the room. "I sincerely hope it won't be too small for you."

Mycroft closes the door in his face as a reply; then he starts emptying the contents of the bag on the toilet seat. Underwear; a pair of dark blue jeans, size 38; a crème T-Shirt size L, and a crème woollen polo neck, also size L. He quickly tares away the tags: he can tell from the low-prices everything comes from a second-hand shop. Thankfully though, the underwear is not second-hand and still factory wrapped. He puts everything on and then inspects his reflection in the mirror with a critical eye. He looks different, _common_. But then, he guesses, that rather was the intended idea. The clothes fit him perfectly and he wonders if he should thank Sherlock for picking up the right size.

Not wanting to be lectured about his diet again - which really isn't going so badly, thank you very much - he decides against it. He picks his dressing shirt and trousers and stuffs them in the now empty plastic bag before walking back to the other room and tossing it in the bin, along with his vest and waistcoat. He finds Sherlock's clothes are already there. Everything's been tossed except the Belstaff coat and the scarf.

His younger brother's sitting cross-legged on the bed, reading the morning paper. He's changed into a black pair of jeans and a navy sweater.

"Am I making the headlines?" the elder inquires.

"No," Sherlock quickly replies and that surprises Mycroft. "There's report of some disturbances in the neighbourhood last night: police cars, sirens. But it's been attributed to a burglary," he says holding out the paper to his brother. "No mention of Deckers' murder or you."

Mycroft quickly reads the article and shakes his head incredulously.

"I've been by your house; the police obviously paid it a visit early this morning," Sherlock informs him. "They've even been kind enough to leave some of their men to keep an eye on it while you're away."

"Baker Street?" Mycroft inquires, eyes still scanning the paper.

"Also under surveillance. This makes no sense," he says at length, grabbing his head and massaging his temples, "If they're onto us, why isn't there an article on the front page?" he questions but his older brother stays silent.

"'_Member of the Cabinet Office murders a Belgian Architect in an abandoned factory'_: that should sell well," Sherlock quickly adds and Mycroft cringes slightly.

"Interests of the Nation come first," the elder says sagely, tossing the paper in the now-rather-full bin. He walks back to the table and leans against it, folding his arms on his chest. "The French still don't know what happened to Jean Layot and if a word of this gets to them-" He shakes his head minutely. "It will implicate our country in an international mess."

"For all they know, I could very well have killed him too," he adds with regret a while later. "I was at the hotel, and as you _so eloquently_ pointed out: I fit the killer's description perfectly and had just enough time to do it." He pauses for an instant. "There is absolutely no evidence Deckers was involved. We are the only ones who know he was working with someone within MI5. To the rest of the world, he's just an architect on a trip, with no connection to Layot."

"Why would you have killed Deckers then?" Sherlock asks frowning. "Oh," he says seconds later. "Obvious. They'd accuse you of trying to pin it on him, but this would only be effective if he were to turn out dead and unable to defend himself."

"I was, after all, the one who told MI5 of the additional security footage which allowed them to narrow down their list," Mycroft says with a disgusted smile. "And my computer logs will show I've done some extensive researches on him. And as you know, I haven't told anyone of his meeting on Lambeth Bridge: the report still says he stayed at the conference centre all afternoon," he finishes with his eyes downcast, feeling well and truly beaten.

He'd always pictured life as a gigantic game of chess, and this felt an awful lot like checkmate. He'd been played since the beginning and he didn't see it coming, none of it. He was the own instrument of his downfall and that leaves a vile taste in his mouth. How pedestrian of him, how _common_! He berates himself feeling like he should have known better.

"They hope Secret Services can contain this story but if they don't find us, we'll make the front page soon enough," Sherlock says sitting up and walking to the window. "Within a day or two this is going to turn into a national manhunt."

Mycroft sharply looks up as his brother's words register, "Not _us,_ Sherlock!" he says quickly. "They're after me, not you."

"I was at the factory too," he replies flatly, grey eyes still roaming through the window.

"But it's only my prints that were found. They have no idea you were there: you can say you didn't know what I was up to," he pauses and then takes two steps towards his brother and stops at the foot of the bed, his eyes fixed on the back of the younger man's head.

"You can walk out of this Sherlock; go back to John, to your life. Let me get myself out of this mess I created," Mycroft offers, surprised to hear his voice has taken on a pleading tone, but he doesn't bother trying to hide it. This is dangerous and he does not want his younger brother to get hurt because of his own stupidity.

Sherlock turns back to him at that and leans himself against the window, hands in his pockets. He looks at him with unusually honest eyes and a small smile Mycroft hasn't seen in years. "I've never walked out on you Mye, I'm not going to start today," he says with sincerity and Mycroft has to swallow hard to fight the lump which suddenly rises in his throat. He doesn't quite trust his voice at the moment so he politely nods his thanks. He turns to look at the other side of the room, fixes the small table as he tries to collect himself.

"Where do we start?" he questions after awhile in an unfaltering voice.

"We need evidence, anything to point us in the right direction," Sherlock starts. "I need to see the body!" he states fiercely and he his half out of the door before Mycroft has had time to put on shoes and grab his coat.

* * *

><p>They take the tube north, mingling themselves with the mass of commuters. Sherlock's left the all too familiar coat in their room but he has the scarf expertly tied around his neck and chin. He has also rearranged his hair so that long black curls hide a good portion of his face. The image reminds Mycroft of a petulant teenager who didn't want to appear on any of the family pictures taken during one very memorable Christmas Party in Devon. But then he surmises he must not look much better himself, with his polo neck pulled all the way up to his chin and a woollen beanie tucked low on his head. Thankfully today's weather is quite chilly and there's some strong bout of wind; so at least they didn't look too out of place.<p>

They get off the underground at Chancery Lane and Mycroft follows Sherlock as he leads them to the back entrance of a familiar looking building. His younger brother quickly picks the door lock open while the elder watches the street making sure no-one is following them.

They enter quickly and Sherlock takes the lead once again, navigating through the corridors with evident ease as he goes down to the morgue.

"Morning, Molly," he brightly announces as he enters the lab. The morgue attendant shrieks in surprise and the files she was holding in her hands fall to the floor. She tries to stammer a reply but gives up eventually. Instead, she crouches down to pick up the discarded documents, her hands visibly shaking.

"François Deckers, Belgian, 32, murdered last night," Sherlock dictates quickly pulling open some of the refrigerators where the bodies are stored, "I need to see the body!"

He turns back to Molly after closing back the last door, without having found the corpse he was searching for. The woman's not looking at him; actually she's completely ignoring him in favour of his sibling. She has a puzzled expression on her face.

"That's my brother, surely you remember him," Sherlock feels the need to clarify, thinking maybe the woman has forgotten somehow.

"Yes, I... I. I remember," she's stammering again and Sherlock finds it very unnerving. She draws in a breath and tries to speak one more time but it's a mess of 'I', 'He', 'They' that doesn't make a lick of sense to the young man; he chooses to distract himself by having a glance into one of the nearby microscope.

She's still looking pointedly at Mycroft and the cause of her discomfort is obviously blatant to the elder man, "I didn't do it," he says calmly, locking eyes with her and willing her to believe him. It seems to reassure her somewhat.

"The body?" Sherlock asks impatiently raising his head again and the woman finally turns to him.

"Gone," she replies, "They had Patridge doing the autopsy early this morning and then authorities quickly collected the corpse. They said since he was a foreigner he was going to be sent back abroad."

"Report?" Sherlock demands. Mycroft has half a mind to berate Sherlock for his manners –what would Mother say?– but today of all days he has more important things on his mind.

"I can get you a copy," she says quickly before leaving the room.

"They're not wasting any time," the elder Holmes comments while both men wait for the young woman to come back.

"Yes, they are awfully efficient for once," his brother replies.

Molly's clicking heels soon announce her return and both men have their eyes fixed on her the second she opens the door. Feeling like prey for the brothers, she falters a bit in her step and promptly holds out the manila folder, her hand shaking. Mycroft is the closest and he takes it off her fingers before Sherlock has the time to reach for it. The detective sends a dark glare towards his brother but the ginger-haired man pointedly ignores him: immersing himself in the report instead.

"I got this too," Molly's hesitant voice breaks the silence and she holds out a bag to Sherlock.

"The victim's personal belongings," he says as if he'd just been offered a colour-wrapped birthday gift.

"They were so quick to leave with the body, they forgot it," Molly adds, "We're sending it to Belgium later with FedEx."

"You can count on the idiots; they always forget something," Sherlock hums a little too happily. He quickly breaks the seal and spreads the contents of the bag on one of the metallic autopsy table, ignoring the morgue attendant again.

"Right," she says to herself looking at the scene in front of her. Sherlock's bent over the table, sniffing at the garments; his older brother's leaning against the wall, completely engrossed in the medical file. "Coffee anyone?" she asks without really expecting an answer. Unsurprisingly Sherlock ignores her, but his brother's eyes shoot up at her words.

"Yes, please: large, cream, two sugars," he says rapidly, with a half-smile. "And anything you can find to eat, I'm starving,"

Her heels click away as she leaves the room. On her way to the coffee machine, she debates whether she should call DI Lestrade to let him know the Holmes brothers are in the morgue. She knows half of Scotland Yard is looking for them. She spoke with a very distraught Doctor Watson earlier today. He was desperately searching for Sherlock and he wondered if she'd by any chance seen him.

She stops by the vending machine on her way back and gets two chocolate bars. She also grabs an apple from the nearby fruit basket for good measure.

She enters the lab again and finds both brothers sorting through the deceased meagre possessions. She hands Mycroft his coffee and places the one she _got-for-Sherlock-although-he-hasn't-asked-for-it_ on the corner of the table. He takes it mechanically and swallows a mouthful without so much as a thank you. She then reaches into her coat pocket to retrieve the food which she also places on the table. This earns her an honest "Thank you," from Mycroft. _Well, at least one of them is polite,_ she thinks, not quite knowing what to do with herself now her tasks were fulfilled.

"I spoke with John this morning," she says finally to break the silence and Sherlock stops shuffling through the receipts he's found in the dead man's trousers pocket.

"He was in quite a state," she continues, pleased to note she finally got his attention, even though he isn't looking at her but at some candy-wrapper. "Asked me if I'd seen you. He said Yarders stopped by Baker Street with a lot of questions." She pauses and Sherlock starts shuffling the receipts again. "You should call him," she advises finally.

"Can't," the dark-haired man replies without looking up, "Phones are most certainly monitored."

"I could give him a message," the young woman kindly offers but the detective doesn't reply.

"We should go," he finally tells his brother a few minutes later. Mycroft quickly swallows the last bit of the second chocolate bar before washing it down with what's left of his coffee; he pockets the untouched apple.

"Do you have any money on you?" Sherlock inquires, stepping away from the table and looking at Molly again. "We're a little bit low on cash," he explains at her puzzled expression.

"Of course, you're wanted men," she says and Mycroft makes a disdainful noise.

She gets her wallet from her nearby bag and hesitantly hands him out the various notes she has: which is a little over 60 pounds.

"Mycroft will pay you back when this is all over," the detective says as he transfers the money to his own wallet.

"You have my word," the elder adds solemnly.

"If you have the time to stop by Baker Street later," Sherlock starts, stopping in front of her on his way out. "Tell John I'm alright and I'm with Mycroft," he pauses and seems to think carefully about his next words. "Tell him if I need his help I'll contact him through the network."

She nods and the young man uncharacteristically reaches forward, grabbing her by the shoulders. "Use my exact words, Molly: _through the network_," he says, looking at her intently, making sure she understands. And just as quickly he releases her and goes out the door; his older brother is still on the threshold.

"And please, do tell him I didn't do it," he quickly adds before finally leaving. She nods her goodbye and lets out a long breath.

* * *

><p>The Holmes brothers quickly walk back to the tube station; mingling with the crowds again.<p>

"How much money did you have to pay for the room?" Mycroft asks as they descend the stairs to the underground.

"Fifty per night," his sibling replies.

"And how much did you have in your wallet yesterday?" he enquires, mentally adding up the various expenses they've had through the day.

"Forty-two pounds," he says and Mycroft realises Molly's money will be the only thing keeping them from having to sleep on the streets tonight.

"We're broke," he says and a nervous laughter escapes him. "_We_ are broke," he tells his brother again and he can't help but smile at that. Their mother still lives in the family century-old manor of the Holmes Estate; he makes more money in a month than certain people do in a year and yet here they are: completely broke and having to choose if they want to spend their last pennies on a decent meal or a room for the night.

"I could pickpocket some of them," Sherlock offers with a smile of his own, his hand encompassing the surrounding crowd, "But you _did_ make me promise never to do that again." The detective shrugs his shoulders and Mycroft huffs a laugh at the memory.

His thirteen years old brother had one day decided that pickpocketing was a very good way to put his dexterity to the test. And, of course, his older brother's room was the best hiding place he had come up with for his stolen loot. Mummy had not been pleased.

"Can your _network_ pass a message to Anthea?" the elder asks when the train arrives.

"You trust her?" Sherlock questions as he enters the car.

"Yes," Mycroft simply says. His younger brother nods and tears off a poster from one of the nearby windows. Then he borrows a pen of a young man who was doing word puzzles and hold out both to his sibling.

"Start writing," he tells him and Mycroft complies.

They ride the Central Line until Canon Street where they switch to the Circle Line, exiting at Embankment. There's a constant flow of people, mostly tourists and the brothers happily hide in the mass.

They meet up with members of Sherlock's 'network' by the Thames and the man discreetly puts a few of Molly's pounds in the hand of a young woman, along with the message to Anthea, which also has a detailed physical description of the PA and her most probable current location.

The message is short, but parts of it are very explicit '_Need cash and complete up-to-date report on current situation'_. Other parts are more cryptic and Mycroft knows no-one other than Anthea will be able to understand it '_Savasse - 5 - sexy heels_'.

* * *

><p>Daylight is starting to diminish as offices workers begin to fill in the streets. The Holmes brothers are quietly waiting on a park bench not far from a bakery, seemingly watching at the world go by. The smell that emanates from the boutique keeps breaking Mycroft's concentration. He looks at his watch and knows that if Anthea received the message she should be there within ten minutes now.<p>

"Savasse?" Sherlock questions finally and the elder can hear in his voice the frustration at not having been able to break the code.

"It's a little town near Montélimar, in France," Mycroft explains, "The owner of this bakery was born there," he adds, pointing at the boutique with a shake of his head. "I stop here often; he makes the best nougat I've tasted in my life."

The ginger-haired man wets his lips at the thought; it cruelly reminds him that he has only eaten two chocolate bars and an apple in the past twenty hours.

"Five is evidently the time," his brother adds, looking at his own watch.

"Obviously," Mycroft confirms and he pleasantly wonders what his younger sibling will make of the last part of the code.

"Sexy heels," he tries out the words carefully, failing to see what they could mean.

"Women's shoes Sherlock. Stilettos," the ginger-haired man explains, careful to keep a neutral expression. His brother lifts an eyebrow at that and Mycroft wonders what crazy deduction he must be making about him and his personal tastes now.

Their discussion is cut short when a familiar looking woman with long brown hair strolls down the road in the distance. She has her blackberry in her hand and a newspaper tucked under her left arm. She crosses the street quickly, her heels clicking audibly on the pavement. She still has her eyes on her cell phone when she reaches the sidewalk and somehow she miscalculates its height and her left heel hits the curb. She gracefully falls to the ground; a young chivalrous man quickly helps her up.

She smiles politely in return as she gets her bearing back. Then she starts walking away, blackberry back in hand, newspaper safely tucked under her arm again. She doesn't even look at the bakery and doesn't notice the two men on the park bench a few yards away.

"Nicely done," her boss says softly as he sees her disappearing in perpendicular road.

They wait a few more minutes and Mycroft finally gets up and starts walking to the place where Anthea fell. He quickly surveys the area and rapidly finds a small black envelope in the nearby bushes.

"Hidden within her newspaper; the fall was a diversion," Sherlock concludes. "Is she using this technique so often that you came up with a codename for it?" he questions with mirth.

"Actually not at all; it's a joke between us," Mycroft replies. "I wasn't entirely sure she would understand what I meant."

He opens the envelope and sees there are at least a thousand pounds in it along with several folded documents. Sherlock quickly grabs a fifty pound note and is off across the street before Mycroft has the time to say anything.

He comes back from the bakery five minutes later with a bag in his hand. Mycroft puts the envelope in his coat pocket and they follow the onslaught of commuters back to the nearest station.

* * *

><p>Mycroft shrugs off his coat and drapes it onto the back of the chair then he goes to sit on the left side of the bed, with Anthea's envelope in his hand. He opens it and spreads the documents on the comforter, sitting with his back against the headboard.<p>

There's a copy of the police report on Deckers' death, the legist report they've read earlier and various MI5 documents. There's also a quick handwritten note from his PA.

'_Sir, I am sure this case is just one big misunderstanding. You have, as always, my complete trust. I must warn you however that you find yourself in quite a dire situation, as not everyone shares my opinions. Not even at number 10! Sir Astonbury made it quite clear that he was going to make sure you were brought to justice, even if he had to do it himself. Good luck Mr Holmes and please do not hesitate to ask for my help again.'_

"Thank you," he says fondly as if she could hear him. He places the note aside and immerse himself in the MI5 documents. There's the copy of a mission order to find and capture him - dead or alive - signed by Sir Astonbury himself. Mycroft knows he works for the JIC. He's a plump and ostentatious posh man who always unnerved him. Unfortunately the feeling is mutual and both men had butted heads before. Really, he wasn't particularly surprised to learn Astonbury was dead set on bringing him down.

The door opens again and Sherlock enters the room. He took a little detour to go pay their _landlord_ the rent for the rest of the week. The young man sits at the bottom of the bed. He still has the bag from the bakery in his hand and he holds it out to his brother with a smile. It feels like a peace offering and a thank you at the same time and Mycroft thinks _he_ should be the one trying to make amends; not the other way around.

"Shouldn't I be the one handing out gifts?" he asks as he peers inside the bag.

"This is the most interesting case I've had in ages," Sherlock says cheerfully.

"I am happy to note my demise holds some interest to you, Sherly," Mycroft replies and then frowns minutely. He'd meant for his comment to sound like a reprimand but somehow the unintentional use of his brother's old nickname ruined the effect.

He retrieves two sandwiches from the bag and holds one out to his brother. He places the two bottles on the bed between them, unsure if Sherlock wanted the coke or the lemonade.

The detective quickly surveys the papers spread out in front of him and starts with the note from Anthea.

"Astonbury?" he asks around a mouthful of sandwich.

"Joint Intelligence Committee," Mycroft explains. "Doesn't like me."

They sift through all the documents but there are no really interesting information. It's all just a cruel reminder of the dangerousness of their situation.

"We have nothing more than yesterday," he finally says closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. His head is killing him again.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," Sherlock says and there's something in his voice that has his brother opening one eye to look at him. Sure enough, the young man is smiling as he reaches into his pocket for a small plastic object which he holds out to Mycroft.

"Candy-wrapper?" he eyes it suspiciously. _Promotional_ _material_, he realizes as he notices there's a company logo on both sides. "Channel Movers, Morrish Road SW2," he reads out loud.

"It's in Brixton," Sherlock informs.

"And this is relevant, how?" his brother demands.

"It was in Deckers' trouser pocket," the detective supplies.

"You stole it from the morgue? It's evidence, Sherlock, you can't do that," Mycroft scolds.

"No, it's a _lead_ in our case," he replies petulantly. "But you're more than welcome to stop by Scotland Yard tomorrow to give it back, if you want," he taunts.

"Deckers was staying at the Savoy and the conference centre is nearby. There is no reason why he would have come so far south," Mycroft works out. "Maybe someone he met gave him this, maybe they were on a stand at the conference centre."

"Maybe not, maybe he went all the way to Brixton for a reason, and then he got hungry," Sherlock counters. "Only one way to find out."

The eldest Holmes quickly looks at his watch to verify the time. It's well past seven.

"They're probably already closed," he says, thinking they could stop by the next morning to ask questions.

"That's the idea. Although I'd recommend we wait until nightfall, when most neighbours are asleep," Sherlock explains; his plan a little less legal than Mycroft's.

**TBC.**


	8. TUESDAY

**The Long Week**

CHAPTER 7: TUESDAY

It's well past midnight when they reach their destination. The Holmes siblings stand by the door and Sherlock quickly gets his lock-picking set out of his coat pocket. He crouches down to get eye-level with the key hole while Mycroft keeps his gaze on the street. _Twice in a day,_ he thinks bitterly, wondering if his life could get any worse. They're inside within a minute.

The office is quite small, three desks in the main room, another in a glass-door cubicle. A separate room on the side they obviously use as a kitchen and finally a toilet. Mycroft enters the cubicle and sits behind the desk, he turns on the computer. It is password protected. He tries the initials of the man whose name is engraved on the glass-door: it works. He quickly searches through the email account and various folders. He discovers the company mostly does import, works a lot with countries in Middle East, and seems one hundred per cent legitimate.

He was about to turn off the computer when Sherlock walks in the office with a USB stick in his hand. Mycroft holds out his palm.

"It was beneath one of the flower pot in the kitchen," the detective says. "The plant was dying, obviously because of the lack of water. However there are two plants perfectly healthy on the secretary's desk meaning she is a good gardener. Therefore the other plant wasn't hers or she was not allowed to touch it. So: not here as a decorative element," he rattles on, looking rather smug although Mycroft hasn't asked him anything. His brother is barely listening, eyes fixed on the screen and Sherlock realises with a start that he misses John: _he_ would have been impressed.

The memory stick reveals a list of shipments which don't appear in the log Mycroft viewed earlier and whose payments were made 'in cash' only. There are references to various containers and boats; some parcels which arrived by plane. They all seem to originate from the same country- Iran. And all of them, he checks, have been delivered to the same warehouse in London.

"It's two blocks away," he says, turning off the computer and putting the USB in his jeans pocket.

* * *

><p>The warehouse is at the end of a narrow alleyway. There are several moving trucks parked outside but everything is deadly quiet. Sherlock is about to start picking the lock when a vehicle turns into the alley. Mycroft barely has enough time to drag them both out of sight before the car lights are on them. They flatten themselves against the side of a truck and wait to see if they've been noticed. The car stops in front of the entrance and two men get out. The passenger lights a cigarette and Mycroft can see his face neatly for a few seconds. He is bulky, with short dark hair and clearly of Arabic origin.<p>

"You shouldn't smoke so much, it'll be the death of you," the second man says. He is further away and the ginger-haired man can't distinguish his features but he recognises the voice and the London accent and Mycroft tenses as he remembers the last time he heard it. It's the man who killed Deckers. He moves back out of sight and Sherlock stares at him urgently. His brother must have noticed the sudden tension in him and he soundlessly enunciates the word '_killer'_ before motioning to the back of his own head.

Sherlock nods in comprehension and steps a little bit closer to his brother as a familiar set of memories rushes through his head. Mycroft half-conscious, bloody and hurt, kneeling on the floor of a disused factory. He is feeling unusually protective all of a sudden and he has to fight an impulse to reach out for his brother's arm.

The lights of a second car illuminate the street and a lean dark Lexus parks next to the other vehicle. The brothers move out of sight again. They can hear the door opening a single person going out. _Man, overweight_, they deduce easily based on the way gravel creaks under the newcomer's feet.

"You're late," the killer says.

"I was busy," a deep and pedant voice replies and Mycroft know he has heard it before. He rakes his brain and tries to remember to whom it belongs, "We still have no idea where Mycroft Holmes is hiding."

"It doesn't matter," the man with the cigarette replies, "Everyone already thinks he's done it."

"It does matter!" the newcomer sharply says. "I hate this stupid prick who believes he's better than everyone. I want him dead!"

Mycroft's blood goes cold at that, the words are familiar and now he knows. He moves forward, unable to fight the urge to see with his own two eyes what his ears are clearly telling him. Sherlock reaches forward to stop him but he doesn't react quite fast enough and Mycroft gets a good look. The Lexus' lights are still on and they're more than what he needs to confirm his suspicion. There, in front of him, stands Sir Ian Astonbury. Both men lock eyes for a second and then all hell breaks loose.

There's some shouting, guns are drown out and Sherlock violently yanks his brother backwards and they start running away. Mycroft can hear the gravel crunching behind them as the two men from the first car starts pursuing them. He doesn't stop to look back, follows his brother blindly, trusting him and his near-flawless knowledge of the London street map. A large bang echoes in the night and he recognises it as the detonation of a gun, a bullet hits the brick wall a few inches behind his head and he bends it down of instinct. He quickens his pace; feet pounding on the ground.

Sherlock takes a sharp left turn in a small road and the fire momentarily ceases. Their pursuers make the turn as well and fires resumes. Three more detonations Mycroft counts before his brother makes another sharp left, taking them out of sight again. The road is larger now and Sherlock grabs his brother's arm tightly as he starts crossing the street, dragging his sibling along through the nightly traffic. A lorry honks loudly as the driver is forced to step hard on the brakes to avoid them. Neither of them stops, they keep running off, turning into another smaller street. Two more turns and it seems they finally lost their tail. Sherlock slows down, looking around and mapping in his head the safest way to the studio he's renting. Mycroft's out of breath; blood beating loudly in his ears, head thrumming painfully and he really wishes he could sit down for a minute.

_God, I am getting too old for this kind of things,_ he thinks. His brother starts walking again, much slower now and he follows in silence. He quickly wonders if maybe he should say something: a few words along the lines of _'I'm sorry for acting stupid and almost getting us killed' _seem appropriate. Or perhaps something simpler like _'thank you for saving my life'_ would do.

"Thank you," Mycroft says honestly as they turn into the street where they are temporarily staying.

"S'alright 'Croft," Sherlock replies, his words clipped. The elder's eyes sought him out at that and that's when he notices something's really wrong. The young man's face is covered in sweat, yet it looks like he's shivering and he is holding himself strangely.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft asks worriedly, grabbing his arm to halt his walking. His brother cries out in pain and he quickly lets go of him. They both freeze and then Mycroft's hands are on him again, gentler this time. He pulls Sherlock's coat open and he doesn't need the light of day to know where the warm substance that now covers his fingers comes from. There's a bullet in his little brother's right shoulder.

"Christ!" he uncharacteristically swears through tight lips.

"It's just a graze," Sherlock assures him, swatting his brother's hands away with his left arm. He starts walking again and they quickly reach their destination. The young man tries to open the door but he's having a hard time with his trembling left hand. Mycroft prides the key away from his fingers and opens the door before helping his brother inside. He turns on the lamp and motions for the younger man to sit on the bed while he quickly retrieves a towel from the bathroom.

Sherlock's removed his coat when he comes back. He seems mesmerised by the bloody index finger he put through the hole left by the bullet in his coat.

"They ruined my coat Mye," he says looking up to him with sad eyes and Mycroft's chest constricts at the sight. There's so many things wrong with that scene, he doesn't even know where to start.

"I'll buy you another one," he replies thickly, while he half kneels on the bed next to him. He helps his brother remove his sweater and undershirt and the younger man winces in pain. Mycroft bitterly realises they don't even have painkillers or a first aid kit.

"Careful Mycroft, your concern is starting to show," Sherlock says in a slightly panting voice, face ashen. "One might think you care."

"My little brother just got shot, of course I care," he replies looking down at his empty hands, feeling at a complete loss for what to do, something he isn't used to.

"It's just a graze," Sherlock says again, as if he was reading his thoughts.

"You've got a hole in your shoulder," Mycroft corrects him, raising his fingers to the wound. "It's a bit more than a graze,"

"Dull," he says wincing as his brother studies the broken flesh before pressing in the towel on both sides of his shoulder.

"You're lucky it got through and it doesn't seem to have nicked any major blood vessel or bone," he explains as he searches the room, cataloguing what he could use to form a bandage.

"And now you even sound like John," Sherlock smiles lazily.

Mycroft distractedly hums in reply and grabs his brother's left hand to press it to the towel, "Hold it there for a minute, would you?" he asks and the young man nods.

He quickly gets up and walks to the bin where he retrieves their former clothes. He grabs his and Sherlock's dress shirts and tosses the rest back in the bin, before returning to his brother's side once again.

The wounded man lets go of the towel and moves his hand to his coat pockets. He fumbles with it for a moment before his hand manages to get a hold of a familiar object. He retrieves the little army knife he once nicked from John and places it in front of his brother. The elder quickly gets to work, deftly cutting the garments in long rectangular slices to use as bandage.

Mycroft focuses all his attention on the task at hand and works with an impressive efficiency. He cleans the wound with a wet towel and bandages it securely, causing as little pain as he can. Sherlock is covered in sweat, tight lines of pain creasing his features by the time he's finished and Mycroft notices he has also lost at lot of his focus. He helps him stand, quickly removes the comforter from the bed and pulls back the sheet. Then he wordlessly helps his brother out of his jeans and inside the bed, pulling the bedding on top of him again.

He leaves the room a few minutes to go wash his hands; fills the glass with water and brings it back with him to the bedroom. Sherlock winces when the other man sits on the bedside and it dips under his weight. He thinks about suggesting him to try another diet, but he's too tired to start an argument, so he lets it pass.

"How are you feeling?" the elder asks softly, tenderly.

"Like I've been shot," his brother replies with half a smirk, and Mycroft thinks it must not be so bad if the boy still has enough energy to joke, right? He presses the glass to the other's lips and helps him raise his head enough to drink a little.

"I'll go to a pharmacy first thing in the morning for painkillers and proper bandages," he says and the dark-haired man hums in reply, his eyes blinking lazily, clearly indicating he was fighting to stay awake. "Try to sleep," he advises and Sherlock for the first time in a long time does as he is told, closing his eyes promptly. Mycroft's heart breaks a little more at that.

His left hand is pushing away sweaty black curls from his brother's forehead before he has the time to fully acknowledge the movement. Sherlock leans in the touch and Mycroft feels his own eyes water. He cannot bring himself to remove his hand and stays unmoving until his sibling's breathing pattern indicates he's fallen asleep. He lets out a long sigh - which half comes out as a sob - as he realises he hasn't been allowed to play the role of caring older brother in so long, he's forgotten how it feels. He gives in to an impulse he hasn't had in years and bends down to place a close-mouthed kiss on the feverish brow.

"I'm so sorry, little brother," he murmurs before sitting up and going to stand in front of the window. He takes a deep breath and tries to calm his agitated thoughts. He needs to focus and think and plan. He shakes his head and closes his eyes an instant. Then he forces his caring big brother persona back to the back of his mind and lets the cold and manipulative politician resurface. He focuses his thoughts on Astonbury and the ramifications of his betrayal and how to get himself and Sherlock safely out of this hellish mess.

* * *

><p>"Is it the painkillers talking?" Mycroft queries once Sherlock is done explaining him the wonderful plan he came up with while the elder Holmes went to the drugstore.<p>

"This man is not an idiot, Mycroft," the consulting detective replies, half lying in bed, half sitting. "He knows you; knows how you think," he pauses and drinks a little water. The glass shakes in his not-quite-steady-yet hand. "Any plan you can come up with, he will see from a mile away. He is expecting something smart and cunning, something like you. This is why we need to do something completely different, so he doesn't suspect anything; we need to do something stupid," the younger man explains his theory.

"Something stupid," Mycroft echoes bewildered. "This is my life we are talking about here. Sherlock," he pauses and pinches the bridge of his nose to try and calm himself. It doesn't work and he sits up nervously and starts pacing, "Astonbury knows I'm onto him now, he'll be destroying all the evidence as we speak. We have one chance and one chance only and this is your best idea?" he asks again.

"It's a perfectly good plan," Sherlock explains.

"It's a stupid plan!" Mycroft shoots back, feeling at the end of his rope.

"Is not!" the youngest retorts.

"Is too!" his brother spats back before he abruptly freezes when he realizes they're arguing like ten years old. "What I mean," he says, trying for something a little bit more mature.

"Is that I'm not only putting my career on the line here Sherlock. It's also my freedom and quite possibly my life that's at stake," he pauses and takes a breath. "Not to mention the blow it would cause to the Nation if it was made public that a man in my position was found guilty of the cold blooded murder of not only one, but two foreigners."

"I know exactly what's at stake," Sherlock tells him sternly, and it's hard to take him seriously with his bandaged shoulder and still too-white face. But his eyes are shining with determination and that does the trick.

"Just wanted to make sure you knew." Mycroft backs off. "That the fate of the entire Nation and my life rest solely on your flatmate's shoulders."

"I trust him," his brother says simply.

"I'm not used to relying so much on other people," the ginger-haired man finally admits as he sits back down by his sibling, knowing it's something Sherlock of all people should be able to understand.

"I trust him," he repeats. "As I would trust you," he adds, his voice barely more than a whisper now.

Mycroft swallows thickly and nods his head in agreement. "I'll trust him as I trust you, then," he says in a soft voice.

* * *

><p>Sherlock naps most of the morning because of the painkillers and Mycroft keeps a watchful eye on him. His mind is racing, trying and failing to come up with an alternative to the plan they've agreed upon.<p>

The young man finally wakes up around noon and they share a brief lunch which consists of Chinese takeaway. Neither eats much. They don't speak, each lost in thought, the cogs in their minds turning rapidly. Neither of them is in the mood to try and guess at the predictions in the fortune cookies. _'Do what you want, when you want, and you will be rewarded' _Sherlock's reads and the man snickers at that. Mycroft gets the more profound _'Today is the tomorrow we worried about yesterday'_ and he feels like ripping the little piece of paper to shreds.

When all the remnants of food are cleared away, Sherlock dictates to his brother a list of instructions for John. The elder is sitting at the small wooden table, pencil in hand, and he dutifully writes down the instruction in a neat and precise handwriting. He leaves shortly afterwards, and brings the message to Sherlock's own version of a post-office; hoping against all odds that note will get to the intended recipient in time and that everything will pan out according to their plan.

**TBC.**


	9. WEDNESDAY 2

**The Long Week**

CHAPTER 8: WEDNESDAY

To say that John Watson was feeling uncomfortable was perhaps the understatement of the century. The chair he is sitting on is bloody painful - like it's been designed by a moron on drugs - or maybe it's just because his hands are bound behind his back.

"Where is he?" the Arabian man facing him asks again.

"Don't have a clue," John says honestly, but the answer doesn't seem to please his interrogator if the hard punch he gets across his face in return is anything to go by. He spits out a mix of saliva and blood and looks back up, "I don't know," he wheezes out again, wishing the man would believe him.

He unfortunately doesn't have a better answer to offer. He truly has no idea where Mycroft is; and no: he doesn't know about Sherlock either. Today is Wednesday and he hasn't seen either one of the brothers since Sunday.

He gets another blow for his effort - to the stomach this time - and for a few seconds he sees stars. _Bloody stupid plan, Holmes_, he criticizes in his head. And to think the day at started so peacefully...

He had woken up to the sound of his alarm clock after an undisturbed night; then he'd gone to the kitchen which hadn't been experimented on and/or blown up during in his absence. He'd made tea and read the papers quietly, without scratching violin noises or gunshots disturbing him. Then he'd checked his phone (no new message from Sherlock); called Lestrade (no breakthrough in the case or news of either brother) and finally contacted Molly just to make sure (no sighting of any of them again). He was still worried out of his mind, but ever since Molly had dropped by to let him know Sherlock was safe, it had been a little bit easier on him.

He knew his friend would contact him if he needed his help, he had said so himself. Besides the young man was with Mycroft after all, and John knew the elder Holmes would make sure his little brother didn't get into too much trouble. All he could do was keep his phone well within reach at all times and wait for the call which would undoubtedly come soon enough.

John had almost made it to the surgery when a young man bumped into him fiercely. The teen apologized and trailed off while John massaged his bad shoulder which had taken the brunt of the impact. Then he'd realized something was off and he quickly reached for his wallet, afraid it'd been lifted. It was still in his back pocket and he breathed a sigh of relief and started walking again. A strong burst of cold wind had hit him then and he planted both hands firmly deep within his jacket pockets. His left hand's fingers had brushed against something that felt like paper and he quickly pulled it out, a puzzled expression on his face. It was a balled up piece of yellow paper, John quickly straightened out. He'd laughed with relief when Mycroft's familiar neat handwriting was revealed. "Couldn't call like anyone else, you bloody moron," he remembers saying fondly as he started reading the message which undoubtedly came from Sherlock.

"Where is Mycroft Holmes?" the man asks again, shaking him out of his thoughts.

"I don't know," he says for the umpteenth time. "Have you checked Whitehall?" he suggests.

His interrogator doesn't seem to appreciate the bout of humour and is about to hit him again when a man opens the door and enters the room. Astonbury, John identifies him, even though his left eye is starting to swell a little. He was the man Sherlock asked him to follow and that was what he'd been doing when a van had slowed down next to him and he was violently abducted from the street in broad daylight.

"Has he said anything?" he asks his lackey/colleague/comrade? The prisoner isn't really sure of the nature of their relationship.

"I don't know where Mycroft is," John quickly gets out before the Arabian man as the time to answer.

"Do you know who I am?" the newcomer demands, imperiously.

_A prick_, he is tempted to reply. That is after all the exact words Sherlock used in his letter. "Not really," he says instead and it earns him another punch across the face.

"Who told you to follow me?" he asks.

"Sherlock Holmes," John replies between two breaths.

"When did you speak with him?" Astonbury asks.

"Didn't," he corrects and the Arab's about punch him again, "He sent me a letter," he forces out as rapidly as his slightly erratic breathing allows him. The man pauses in his movement and John inhales as deep as he can before continuing. "A list of instructions," He stops to take another breath. "Orders to follow you and write down all the places you've been," he falters, panting rapidly. "and all the people you've spoken to."

"And that list... You were supposed to give it to him, how?" he asks.

"Phone booth, Paddington, south entrance" he wheezes out, "Had to leave it inside at ten tonight," he recounts dutifully.

Unlike the Arabian man, Astonbury seems to appreciate his honesty. He paces a little as he considers this new information.

"I'll have MI5 monitor Paddington," he says finally to the second man. "Once we have Mycroft, all this will be over. The French will be notified and the negotiations will be ended."

"If England, France and Germany fall apart, there won't be anyone strong enough left to uphold Europe," the Arabian man says happily and John starts to wonder if they've forgotten about him. He discreetly gets to work on the rope bounding his hands and tries to loosen the knots.

"Divide and conquer," Astonbury says with a smile, oldest trick in the book. "Our brothers have waited long enough."

His phone chirps and he takes the call after one look at the caller ID.

"You'd better have good news," he barks in the receiver and the news indeed does seem to be good, because he quickly smiles. "Send all your men, I'm on my way. Don't let him get away from you," he orders before finishing the call.

"Mycroft Homes has been sighted near Whitehall," Astonbury explains urgently to the second man, "He tried to contact his PA. We're going there."

"What about him?" the Arabian man asks, motioning towards the prisoner, before Astonbury leaves the room.

"Kill him," he replies instants before the doors closes behind his back. His tone was as flat and emotionless as if he'd just said 'open the window; it's hot in here'.

John's breath quickens as he shuts his eyes, "Please god, let me live," he prays softly, tugging at the ropes vigorously.

"What did you just say?" the man asks, as he cocks his gun.

The prisoner repeats the words through trembling lips: it comes out as a mere murmur.

"Speak louder!" the man orders, stepping closer to better hear him. John opens his eyes and focuses on him, he inhales loudly and the ropes fall to the ground. "Please god, let me live," he says in a hard voice and he kicks the gun away with his right feet.

The interrogator is surprised and it gives John just enough time to get up and punch him square in the face. A surge of adrenaline rushes through his veins and the pain from his wounds disappears. He takes another step forward and places a second quick blow to his opponent's stomach. The man falls backwards and the soldier rapidly reaches for the discarded gun. He is half crouched, with on knee on the ground when he presses the trigger. The bullet hits the Arabian man in the shoulder, exactly where the soldier intended for it to go. The interrogator falls backward to the ground, clutching at his bleeding wound tightly.

"I was in the army," John tells the man. "They sent us to Afghanistan. Where we got shot at; kidnapped and blown up. Know what we called it when it happened? We called it Thursday," he spits, bitterly.

He walks closer to the writhing man, his gun still pointed at him, his hand absolutely steady. "I survived it all; and got a bloody medal for it." He pauses to let the information sink in. "Now, you'd have to be an idiot to think some rope is going to stop me," he finishes, changing his gun from his right hand to his left.

"Besides-" John continues, crouching down to punch the man hard in the face; effectively knocking him out cold and breaking his nose in the process. "You punch like a girl!"

John walks out of the room and he can feel the adrenaline starting to recede. He takes out his phone he retrieved from the unconscious man's pocket and dials Lestrade's familiar number.

"Been kidnapped," he says en lieu of greeting. "I don't know where I am but surely you can track down the signal," he adds as he makes his way outside. He squints when the bright sun assaults his eyes, but the cold afternoon air is refreshing.

"J-John?" the surprised DI stammers his name. "Are you alright?"

"I'll live, please do kindly come pick me up Greg, I want to press charges," he adds as he sits carelessly on the pavement.

* * *

><p>Mycroft is once more running down a street and - dear god, how much does he hate doing that. <em>Stupid plan<em>, he thinks again as he takes a sharp left into a narrow alley.

Sirens wail in the distance and he quickens his pace. He runs down a flight of stairs and takes another sharp turn: bumping into a young woman who falls on the floor. He wishes he had time to help her up but he really hasn't and he continues running. She's insulting him now he hears, so he guesses she has to be alright. He crosses the street and runs down to the underground, hurriedly, looking at his watch. _One minute thirty._ He quickly makes it to the end of the platform and stops, his eyes glued to the entrance of the tube. _One minute fifteen._ He tries to catch his breath and passes the back of his left hand on his brow, it comes away covered in sweat. _One minute._ His pursuers are still nowhere to be seen and he smiles as he hears the train coming. The breaks screeches when it stops and Mycroft wishes the doors would open already. He throws another quick glance towards the entrance and finally enters the car. He takes the first available seat and the doors close shortly afterwards. The train departs on schedule and he sags in relief.

He knows MI5 won't have a hard time figuring out he's taken the tube to get away. They will pull up the CCTV footage and track him easily. He exits two stations later and ducks his head when he passes in front of a city camera. He trots up the stairs and inhales a large breath of fresh air when he reaches the top. He walks quickly along the Thames, coat hanging open and his hands fisted in his jeans' pockets; he looks calm but there's a storm brewing within his head. He finally decides to stop when he reaches the middle of a bridge and leans against the barrier. He takes a minute to gaze at the panorama. This beautiful and marvellous city. The heart of his Nation he's fought so hard to protect and who let him down so quickly. He can see Westminster and the London Eye from where he stands.

He remembers when they built the later. Sherlock had seemed really interested in the project and through his connections within the government Mycroft had managed to get two tickets for the inaugural day on New Year's Eve of 1999. He remembers they'd stopped at a bar for fish and chips on their way back home. That had been one of their last good moments. The drugs had came in shortly afterwards and things never were quite the same between them again.

Mycroft looks to the right, his gaze casting out as far as he can, in the direction where he knows his brother is. He left the young man lying in the bed of a dingy room with a bullet hole in his shoulder; all that because of him. He reaches in his coat pocket and takes out the little package Sherlock had thrown at him before he left the studio to go perform his part in the detective's grand plan. He didn't say '_goodbye_' or '_good luck'_: he just wordlessly tossed him this and quickly looked away, as if nothing had happened. Mycroft hadn't had the time to open it yet. The small parcel is rectangular and thin, much like a chocolate plate. He tears away the newspaper wrapping and laughs warmly when the content is revealed. It's a bar of nougat, and Mycroft realises his brother must have bought it when he got the sandwiches. The gesture is so kind and unfamiliar; he feels his eyes begin to water and he has to fight hard to control his emotions.

He tears a corner of the bar away and brings it to his mouth, savouring the familiar sweet taste. He carefully puts the nougat back in his pocket and turns over to gaze in the opposite direction; the sight takes away some of the comfort the delicacy brought him. There they are, the two ominous and looming governmental institutions facing each other. Thames House on the right and the SIS Building on the left; MI5 and MI6.

He can hear the faint sound of sirens in the distance and he quickly reaches for some of the nougat again. He hopes he'll be able to finish the bar later in the evening; that is if he doesn't end up dead or in jail by then.

The wail of sirens grows louder and he can see blinking lights coming from both sides of the Thames. He thinks of Sherlock again: his genius brother and his half-assed plans. He wonders how this one will play out as the first car embarks on the bridge. It's a dark Volvo and there's an identical one, seconds away from it. _MI5_. The tires screeches as the cars come to a stop in front of him, effectively blocking the circulation on the left lane. A man and a woman come out with their weapons trained at him. He raises his hands politely without needing to be told. He keeps his head held high and his face carefully blank. He does some quick calculations in his head and no matter how he looks at it; he cannot get further than a fifty percent chance of success at this point. A black Lexus parks behind MI5's cars two minutes later and two familiar figures come out: Astonbury and the man who killed Deckers.

Mycroft raises his hands a little higher and freezes, careful not to make any threatening movement. He thinks of John and hates the fact that he doesn't know if Sherlock's friend did what was expected of him. _Fifty percent_, Mycroft thinks again. His fate – everything - is depending on someone over whom he has absolutely no control. Sirens are still wailing in the distance and two more cars embark on the bridge, coming in from the other side. They're parked on the right lane moments later, and this time it's the entire traffic on Lambeth Bridge that is stopped. Mycroft can already imagine the ripple effect and the massive traffic jam this will create throughout the entire city, but he can't really bring himself to care at this particular moment; not with so many guns pointed towards him. Two men come out of the new car and a man and a woman exit the second one. Three of them immediately draw out their weapons and the fourth one takes on the scene with wide eyes and an open mouth.

"Scotland Yard," Lestrade says forcefully. "Drop your weapons," he orders the officers who have their guns aimed at Mycroft.

"MI5," the young woman replies. "Step down, Detective, this is our case."

"We are here for an arrest, and I bloody well intend to carry it out," the silver-haired man says not backing away.

"Mycroft Holmes is accused of treachery against the Nation. We have jurisdiction," Astonbury interrupts with authority.

"On whose order?" Lestrade questions, lowering his weapon minutely.

"Mine. Sir Ian Astonbury, senior member of the Joint Intelligence Committee," he proclaims.

"Pleasure to meet you," Lestrade replies with a cold smile, redirecting his aim towards him. On his flanks Donovan and Anderson mirror the movement. "Sir Ian Astonbury, you are under arrest for kidnapping and assault," he says with a smile. "I can happily inform you that the man who presses charges against you testified within Scotland Yard earlier this afternoon, so I guess that makes _you_ officially my case," he adds with a pointed look towards John who is still standing near the car.

Sally holsters her gun and moves forward, reaching behind her back to get her handcuffs, "You are also accused of being an accessory to the murder of François Deckers and Jean Layot," she starts before dutifully informing him he's allowed to be assisted by a lawyer.

"This is preposterous! You have no evidence." Astonbury exclaims, "Do you know who I am, woman?"

"As you kindly pointed it out: yes, I do!" she says grabbing his hands and cuffing him with a bit more force than was strictly necessary.

"I'll have your head!" he screams as Sally drags him away. "All of you!"

Mycroft slowly lowers his hands as the men from MI5 lower their gun, they're suddenly at a loss for what to do. The elder Holmes steps forward, standing tall and proud and although he isn't wearing his three-piece suit and he doesn't have his umbrella, he eludes his usual confidence and positively looms with the might of a storm above them.

"I believe you came here for an arrest," he says in his coldest voice, looking at the blond woman.

"Sir?" she asks a bit unsure of herself.

"Not myself, obviously," he corrects disdainfully. "But I can testify that this man-" He points at the man who came in the same car as Astonbury. "-Killed François Deckers, in a disused textile factory in Lambeth on Saturday night."

"Steven?" the woman turns to him with a perplexed expression.

He tries to make a run for it, but the blonde agent quickly cocks her gun and he freezes in his steps at the familiar noise. He is worse than a sitting duck on this bridge and he knows she's a very good shot.

MI5 arrests him and leave promptly. Lestrade and the Yarders rapidly depart with their own catch and soon the only two people left are Mycroft and John.

"You look tired," Watson comments as Sherlock's brother leans with his back against the bridge. The fierce and scary politician persona is gone again and he now looks completely worn out and oh-so-human. "Long week?" the doctor questions with a smile, well Mycroft thinks it's a smile: it's a bit hard to tell because of all the bruising on the shorter man's face.

"You're one to talk," he replies quietly.

John huffs, "You should see the other guy," he says and this time Mycroft is certain to see him smile.

The elder Holmes reaches in his pocket and takes out the delicacy again. He breaks off a corner of it and stuffs it in his mouth contentedly.

"Nougat?" he offers, holding it out for John. The shorter man looks at him curiously for a minute, taking in the sight. Mycroft Holmes, the bloody government, is slouching against a bridge's reeling, wearing a pair of old faded jeans and a polo neck. There's a recent cut above his right eye and the bruising hasn't completely worn off yet. He's looking like he hasn't slept all week but the wicked smile that breaks his face as he offers to share candies, gives him a rather boyish look. John can't help but start stupidly giggling.

Mycroft seems offended for a few seconds before his own smile stretches and he laughs along with John. All his worries momentarily disappear from his mind and he simply enjoys the setting sun and the fact he's alive. "Bloody stupid plan, Sherlock," he gets out between two laughs.

They're still laughing and slightly out of breath when a familiar black car stops near them. Anthea opens the door with a raised eyebrow and they enter quickly.

"Good to see you, Sir," she says with a smile.

"Yes; it's nice to be back," he replies with a warmth in his voice that the young woman isn't used to. "Thank you Anthea," he adds sincerely, locking eyes with her and letting her know he means it. The moment passes and Mycroft averts his gaze, pressing on the com button to give the driver an address in Lambeth.

"Very nice to see you again," John tells the young woman with a wave of his hand. She looks at him perplexedly for an instant before humming distractedly and returning to the Blackberry she has in her hand.

John frowns and it pulls at one of his cuts. He tells himself it must be because of his wounded and swollen face she hasn't recognised him.

**TBC.**

* * *

><p><em>This fic is almost over my lovelies...<br>I'll post the last chapter and the epilogue next Saturday._

_Have a great week!  
>-K.<em>


	10. THURSDAY 2

**The Long Week**

CHAPTER 9: THURSDAY

John sits at his computer, typing up the last week's events in his blog. It's a complicated task. There are so many confidential details in this story; he has to censor himself and it gets difficult to make intelligible sentences. After a lot more of write-edit-delete, he gives up and settles for a quick summary of the case. It's only one paragraph and he's labelled it: The Long Week.

Sherlock walks in the kitchen as the blogger reviews his spelling one last time. He's still wearing his pyjama bottom - no shirt because half of his torso is bandaged – and his long dressing gown is safely tucked around his shoulders. The shorter man hits the send button and promptly stands to inspect the detective's wound. The young man lets him, without a word.

John carefully prides Sherlock's robe open checks that the bandage he made last night hasn't moved too much. He gives it a satisfied shake of the head, happy to note his handiwork held through and tugs the garment closed again. The young man strides back to the living and lets himself flop down on the sofa, with less flourish and a little more caution than usual.

"Tea?" the doctor asks to his retreating back and gets a positive hum in reply.

He walks in the living a few minutes later, simmering cup in his right hand a plate of cookies in the other. The 'Crime Zone' has mostly disappeared now; Sherlock even gave John a hand with that. After he'd tended to the young man's injury on the sofa, he'd tried to usher him to his bedroom in the hopes that he would catch some sleep. Sherlock had all but refused, walking straight to the wall and their suspects list instead. He'd then quickly started to tare down the snapshots and post-its notes. He did it all one-handed, his lean fingers shaking slightly. He'd started with his brother's picture; promptly crumbling the papers and tossing everything in the bin with more force than was necessary. Only then did he allow the good doctor to take him to his room.

John had walked down to the kitchen afterwards, in the mood for a sandwich. He ate it in silence as he let his mind wander back to the events that had taken place earlier.

He had followed his flatmate's instructions to the letter. Going up to Whitehall to pursue Astonbury wherever he went. He walked close to him when the man went out for lunch, sat at the next table and kept his eyes fixedly on him the entire time. Then he'd followed him back to his office. He didn't try to be subtle about it. _Be obvious_, Sherlock had written, _act stupid._ And he had, unquestioningly, he had done just that. And as the detective had imagined, he got kidnapped and interrogated. And because everyone involved assumed he was plain and stupid - a mere pawn in their grand game of chess - to be moved around and disposed of easily, they got careless. They let him see their faces and they forgot; they stupidly forgot that John was not an idiot. He wasn't plain nor daft; he was a doctor and an army veteran and he showed them he wasn't a pawn. He showed them all he was a knight and he moved forward on the board with a vengeance; knocked off the bishop and checkmated the king.

Mycroft had given him a run down of the latest day's events in the car that took them to the little studio the siblings had been renting. John's eyes had widened in horror when they got to the part of the story where the detective had gotten shot. Mycroft hadn't bothered hiding his guilt at this point and John respected the rare bout of honesty- or maybe that was just a sign of how tired the younger man truly was.

Sitting now in the living room, John can't begin to fathom how this was going to affect the brothers' already complicated and tensed relationship. They always seemed to be knee-deep in a feud or another. Criticising each others' eating habits and chosen fields of work. Throwing barbs and barely veiled insults in each other's face; seemingly forgetting they are each other's own flesh and blood. Well, it seemed, life had decided to throw at them a painful and eloquent reminder. And life had been successful, the doctor surmises, if the way Sherlock was slightly leaning against his brother's strong shoulder on the ride back to 221B was anything to go by.

* * *

><p>Sherlock digs into the cookies happily, munching contentedly. He always gets craving for sweets and biscuits once he's finished with a case.<p>

"So," John starts reaching for the morning paper. "That was one hell of a plan."

The consulting detective hums positively, seemingly content.

"Get yourself kidnapped, John and if possible, do try not to get killed and ruin everything," he recalls Sherlock's instruction.

"Good plan indeed," the young man says with a fair amount of pride, somehow completely missing in on the sarcasm in his friend's voice. The shorter man throws the newspaper back on the table forcefully. He would have thrown it in Sherlock's face if the detective hadn't been wounded.

"I could have gotten myself killed! They tied me to a chair!" he tries to explain some of his frustration to his thick mad flatmate.

"You got yourself out, obviously," the dark-haired man points out, waving his left hand in John's general vicinity, as if to prove his point that the shorter man was indeed well alive. "Mycroft also had doubts," he remembers, helping himself to another cookie. "Convinced him you could be trusted."

"Can't believe _he_ went along with this stupid plan," John mutters and Sherlock snorts at how close the words resemble his brother's.

"So," the sandy-haired man starts again hesitantly after a moment of comfortable silence. "You two: you're good now?"

Sherlock lifts an eyebrow, unsure of the meaning of his flatmate's words.

"You and Mycroft," John clarifies. "You spent a whole week working together and all…"

The young man looks at him in earnest now but he's unsure how to respond. Yes, Mycroft and him hadn't worked together in long time, and that week had been arduous and painful and dangerous and… there are many other adjectives piling up in his head now but he forces his mind to slow down and he chases away the images of blood and the fear. He decides to settles on a better adjective. "Good," he says at length.

He knows most siblings are close; it's how it's supposed to be. They hang out together and have fun, do pedestrian things like birthday parties and Sunday brunch. But that's never been Mycroft and him, well, it hasn't been for a long time and if they ever were close, the both of them have forgotten about it (mostly). They've grown up and thread dangerous circles now where _caring is not an advantage_. But if he is truly honest with himself, he has to admit that it's nice to be reminded sometimes that they are related and that when push comes to shove they can truly count on each other. He gives his blogger a smile.

"Thank you," he says in an honest voice. "for helping us."

"It's what friends do," John replies with a smirk.

* * *

><p>Lestrade drops by in the afternoon, thankfully without Donovan and he records Sherlock's statement. He confirms to them that Astonbury is behind bars, and although he had an army of lawyers visiting him in the morning, the DI doubts he will see the light of day anytime soon. Not with Ishram Benzema - the man who tortured John - quickly spilling the beans in the hope of saving himself. Lestrade had also received a copy of a memo from Thames House informing them that Steven Nicholls - the MI5 traitor - had been interrogated by their own services (undoubtedly unpleasantly) and had confessed to have killed Deckers, acting on Astonbury's direct order. Everything was piling up against the man and there was no way he wasn't going down.<p>

"Your brother should be cleared of all charges in no time," the DI adds but Sherlock doesn't seem to be interested. John wonders what's happened to the elder Holmes. He had not seen or heard of him since the ride back to Baker Street. But then he surely had a lot of explaining to do and a week's worth of work to catch up on.

"Deckers killed Layot and Nicholls killed Deckers," Lestrade finishes. "We wouldn't have been able to solve either murder without your help Sherlock," he thanks him in his own way but the detective barely gives him half a smile in return.

"What a week," John sighs as the DI gets up, shrugging his coat back on; ready to go down to Scotland Yard to put the finishing touches to his report.

"There's just one thing I don't understand," he says on the threshold, looking pointedly towards Sherlock who is lying back down on the sofa. "They all worked for Astonbury but what was _his_ endgame?"

"Politics," Sherlock breathes out in a deep voice but all John hears is '_boring'_.

**TBC.**


	11. EPILOGUE

**The Long Week**

EPILOGUE

It's a week later when the elder Holmes finally shows up at 221B. John is cleaning mugs in the kitchen and Sherlock is changing the chords of his violin, sitting at the little dining table. The instrument remained silent all week because of his still mending shoulder and he is itching to play. He takes care of it instead. Every morning, John thanks all the deities he can think of, for another night of uninterrupted quality sleep.

The comfortable silence that had descended on the flat is interrupted by the creaking of steps and a polite knock on the door. John goes to answer and Sherlock sets the instrument down.

"Evening, Mycroft," the doctor greets him with a warm smile as he lets him in.

"And to you," Sherlock's brother replies with a slight curve of the lips as they both cross the living to the kitchen. Mycroft drops a rectangular package on the coffee table without the shorter man noticing. It's a new Belstaff coat, as promised.

"Tea?" John offers.

"No, thank you," Mycroft answers from the threshold. "I won't be staying long."

"You're not here with another case, I hope," Sherlock quickly enquires. "If another foreigner got killed, kindly ask someone else."

"Nothing of the sort," his sibling replies with his patented politician smile. "This is merely a social call." Sherlock scoffs and John feels like they're back on familiar grounds.

"I wanted to inform you Astonbury told us everything," the elder Holmes starts again. "He was stationed in Iran fifteen years ago, that's when they turned him. He's been playing double agent ever since."

"You should really vet your people more carefully," Sherlock disdainfully interjects. Mycroft ignores him and continues his report.

"He was later recruited by a new terrorist group who want to see the power of Middle-Eastern civilizations restored. With good reason, they thought bringing down the European Union was going to help them. According to Astonbury, they've been tearing it apart brick by brick for some time now. He gave us the names of his contacts abroad and MI6 are slowly tracking them down and destroying the terrorist cell."

"So, it's over?" John asks hopeful.

"Not quite, it's a really large cell. There are a lot of members in a lot of countries; it will take time," he says, somewhat ruefully. "But now, at least we know they exist and we're onto them. They won't be able to do our Nation any more harm and we've notified the other countries." He pauses then finally adds, "The French delegates are coming back next week to continue the negotiations."

"Well, that's a good thing," the doctor comments; happy to know World War III was not going to start tomorrow and he could continue to play detective with Sherlock.

"Politics," said detective abjectly says and once again all John hears is '_boring'_.

"It's what makes the world go round, Sherlock," his elder sibling chastises him and somehow Watson feels like this must be a conversation the Holmes brothers have already had countless times.

"_Your_ world, maybe," the young man scoffs. "Mine goes round because of the conservation of angular momentum. Science: you should look into it some time 'Croft. Might learn something," he adds with a smirk and a wave of his hand.

"Ah, Johann Kepler's equations." Mycroft recalls the theory easily, smirking at his little brother. "I'm well aware of it, thank you brother. Do not forget who thought it to you in the first place, _Sherly_," he taunts and Sherlock scowls.

John looks at the banter with a smile of his own. The interaction between the two brothers seems kinder and less tense than usual to him. He couldn't exactly say why: maybe it's something in the way Sherlock looks at the table with a ridiculously endearing childlike pout of his lips, or maybe it's the way Mycroft's voice softened over the last syllables. Either way, John gets the feeling he should give them a moment of privacy and he makes a great show of shaking the nearby empty milk bottle.

"We're out of milk," he says aloud as if it wasn't obvious enough. "I'll just go down to the shop and buy some," he adds.

There's no reply from either Holmes, not that he was expecting one. Mycroft is still looking smug and Sherlock has returned to his violin, clearly sulking.

"You'll keep an eye on him right, Mycroft?" John asks him as he moves out of the kitchen. "Make sure he doesn't kill himself or blow up the place while I'm gone?"

"Of course," the elder replies dutifully.

Sherlock gives him a smirk at that, feeling like it has been a while since he last tried to prepare Trinitrotoluene or any other kind of explosives.

The sandy-haired man has unhooked his jacket when Mycroft walks into the living. He halts his movements and turns back to him, wondering if he was leaving already.

"I just wanted to thank you John," he says simply, as if he'd guessed at the shorter man's thoughts.

"No need Mycroft, really," the doctor shrugs his jacket on.

"My brother's plan was-" he isn't completely sure how to finish that sentence, he wishes he could find something better than '_stupid'_ but really there was no other accurate words to describe the foolish plan.

"Yeah I know," John cuts him off understandingly. "His plans often are like that."

"Nevertheless," the man continues. "You could have been killed. It was a big risk you took, for me."

"S'alright, Mycroft," the doctor tries to downplay it again.

"I will not forget it John," Sherlock's brother says honestly. "I'm in your debt. Thank you."

"It's what friends do," Watson replies with a simple smile and he sees himself out with a goodbye wave of his hand.

Mycroft stays poised looking at the spot where the shorter man had been. _Friends._ It's such a foreign concept; it takes the breath out of him. He doesn't have many of those; he doesn't have any actually. Employees, colleagues, people he can manipulate at will to do his beadings whether they're aware of it or not; preferably if they're not aware of it. All are merely little pawns in that grand scheme of his. But friends, no, he never really had one of those. But now, apparently he does and the thought is oddly comforting, he finds. Now he truly understands what his brother sees in his flatmate.

He tries to collect himself and knows there's one more set of thank you that is due. He lets a small sigh pass his lips: this is going to be another awkward conversation for him. _Emotions_ are not his forte. He has been playing the iceman for so long; it's hard to revert to the person he was before. He turns back to the kitchen and notes Sherlock's also in the living room now. The younger man is leaning against the wall, near the threshold, looking pointedly at the floor. _Ah_, Mycroft understands, _he also knows why I'm here_.

"I believe I owe you a thank you as well, Sherlock," the elder says immediately. He wasn't one to beat around the bush. He saw the situation as a plaster that needed to be removed. There was no point tucking around the edges for hours, might as well get it done in one go.

His brother hums distractedly in response, keeping his eyes on the floor as if he'd just discovered some intriguing pattern he'd never noticed before.

"Sherlock," Mycroft repeats the name, but his tone is totally different. It's the _I'm-being-honest-this-is-important_ tone and his brother looks up at that. Their eyes automatically seek each other out and they lock gaze. Both pairs of blues are unusually open and for the first time in a long time there's love shining in them. It was an emotion both thought they'd destroyed ages ago but apparently it wasn't completely gone; it had just fallen at the bottom of a very deep well and now it was slowly clawing its way back up. _How strange._

Suddenly Mycroft is at a loss for what to say; he is also afraid to break the moment. He feels like he's walking on a very fine line and any wrong move could send him spiralling down. And he knows the fall would hurt the both of them.

"Thank you for the nougat," he says in the end, honestly, his voice thick with repressed emotions. The words mean a lot more of course, but it's the best he can do. Sherlock smiles at that: a warm smile his brother hasn't seen in a long time and Mycroft knows he's done the right thing and he gives him a small but sincere smile of his own.

"I'm always happy to help with the diet," the youngest replies at lengths and there's once again more to read in his words than what's been said. His brother chuckles lightly at that, his smile widening.

He should go now, he knows. But somehow he cannot bring himself to say '_goodbye'_. Not when they've come so far and he feels like for the first time they have a chance: a chance to be brothers again; a chance to be _friends_. The thought is overwhelming and a little too much for him and he clears his throat awkwardly; feeling more vulnerable than he has in years. He acts on impulse and quickly turns to leave. He opens the door without a word and walks outside.

Sherlock almost stops him, almost. He takes two steps forward and reaches out his hand, but he remains silent in the end and the door closes after his brother. He'd had no idea what to say. What a strange concept for him. He always knew, was always ahead of everyone else. _Sentiments_: the only area where he was well and truly lacking and so much behind the rest of the world. What would normal people do? he had wondered. What would John have done?

'_Do you want some tea_?' he was going to ask, his mouth opening to form the words. But then an echo of a former conversation had interrupted his thoughts - _'Do you ever wonder if there's something wrong with us? Caring is not an advantage'_ - and the words had died on his lips and he had let his brother walk out on him. The flat feels empty and cold to him now and he lets out a long painful sigh as he lowers his still outstretched hand.

Behind the closed door, Mycroft is still standing on the first step. He hasn't moved: he can't. He is lost in a memory; a long forgotten memory. The first time he'd seen Sherlock, when his mother had come back from the hospital. The little baby was in his crib and Mycroft peered atop of it to gaze inside, unsure of what he'd find. His eyes had settled on a chubby form: a very pink little boy with a tuft of black hair and bright blue eyes. '_Hello_,' he'd said bending down to poke at him with curiosity. Sherlock had made a strange gurgling sound and reached for the offending index. He'd grabbed it tightly, his so little hand curling around his brother's finger and not letting go. Mycroft hadn't moved. He'd let the boy hold on to him until he fell asleep an hour later. Even then, neither had let go.

Mycroft turns back on his heels; the same irrational impulse that forced him out of the room, now pulling him back in. As he re-enters the flat, he sees Sherlock is now standing in the middle of the living room, facing the entrance. He quickly takes the four steps that separate them and he has his arms around his brother's neck before either of them as the time to really think about what is going on. He holds on tightly, and for once he stops thinking entirely.

He stops asking himself what he should or shouldn't do; what is appropriate and what isn't. He banishes all thoughts from his mind and he simply appreciates the moment. He lets himself bask in the warmth of his sibling and holds on strongly, and love is clawing its way up faster. That long forgotten sentiment is finally allowed to see the light of day and it explodes in Mycroft's chest and it feels so good he could cry. Sherlock returns the embrace hesitantly after awhile, his right arm moves to his brother's lower back: it's the best he can do with his still throbbing wound. His left grabs tightly around Mycroft's shoulders and he holds on too, with all the strength he has. He lets his head rest on his brother's shoulder and he too marvels at the foreign sensations of warmth and security.

Mycroft pulls back after a moment and collects himself. Sherlock doesn't know how long the embrace - or was it a hug? - lasted. His mind draws a blank; apparently all of him had been too engrossed in enjoying the moment to keep track of time. All this display of emotions, it's very un-like him and the thought is puzzling. He opens his eyes - when had he closed them? - and stares at his brother, noting he is hastily brushing at one of his moist cheek. They lock gaze again and Mycroft smiles fondly, in that big brotherly way of his: like he used to when they were little. He then gives him the briefest of nod and walks out of the flat, closing the door behind him with less haze than the first time. They don't say _'thank you'_ or '_I love you'_: they don't need to, they already know.

Sherlock walks back to the window, stops along the way to look at the smiley face made out of yellow paint that adorns the wallpaper. He smiles right back.

**THE END**

* * *

><p><em>And here we are my lovelies...<em>

_This was my biggest story to date. I've always enjoyed writing shorter pieces - like vignettes and coda - but this time, I've truly outdone myself. This was a labour of love and I hope you have enjoyed reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing it._

_I just wanted to take the opportunity to thank you all for following this story. Thank you for the kind reviews, words of praise, favourites and alerts. _

_Also HUGE thank you to my lovely beta: Kate, who did a wonderful job at correcting my French-influenced grammar and sometimes ludicrous spelling._

_Be on the lookout for my next fic: "**Behind Closed Doors**". A new, darker _BBC: Sherlock_ long-story coming very soon..._

_Love you all!  
>-K.<em>

_P.S.: For those of you who want to keep a copy of this story somewhere on your computer or just print it out to read again on a cold winter night (or any other night). You can download here a nice looking, easier on the eye version:  
><em>**www . mediafire . com / view / ?rpfmodoyfxhy3cr**

_P.P.S.: I'm on Twitter now, if some of you want to follow me. I'll try and post updates on coming works there:  
><em>**_www . twitter . com / Cristelle_**


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